Notes from the Archive No. 2
In preparing for Sunday's service, I came across this poem I wrote several years ago, based on sitting at Piccadilly Gardens in Manchester. For the unfamiliar, the gardens have a bit of a bad rep - sunken flowerbeds were replaced by a concrete design of Tadeo Ando, sandwiched between congested tram lines and a nondescript office block. Even before its current iteration, the space had a reputation for crime and cannabis (among other narcotics). Still, in the rare Mancunian sun, people would flock and like a lake springing into life, would feel refreshed and energetic.
It's at the start of a new life, so this might be considered an homage to a space long scorned.
They come for the sun, worshippers and all
Displaying their brashness, timidity,
Laughter and repose.
Drinking confection which is actually alcohol.
The rightfully proud, the injured, the anguished,
Stretched out on grass patches cut through by concrete and stone.
Every individual holding tight to their square foot of earth
Lest their desertion become permanent
While wave after wave of footsteps trudge past
too busy for the warmth.
Children are baptised in the fountain
and for a time I am jealous, yearning to sully
my adult vestments
and know a different foolishness
than what occupies my life:
One that throws off expectation and convention
for the unprepared answer that is always joy-filled.
Too long I have stayed
and the world carries on,
I assume as I leave that place.
(C. Coyne, 201?)