City of Hope

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City of Hope
Bristol, this plaque says, is a City of Hope. I wish hope was as strong and certain as the stone this was carved in. But life as we knew it tilts on its axis, each day a sickening lurch, the minutes brittle with worry and fear. But when I chase hope down the long halls of my brain, I recollect Bristol from behind my eyelids and soften. Tower block windows winking from a humble summit. College Green on a lunch break. The Harbourside fringed with giggles and shrieks. Top 40 Dribbles from taxis. All that fruit jewelling Stapleton Road. Kids shedding feathers and joy for carnival.That small thrill of swapping smiles with strangers. Hands held, doors knocked, the scrambled shape of a friendly face behind frosted glass.
Its not been long, yet all this seems to belong to a distant past. And for many these pleasures were always elusive, forever slipping between deeds and actions, warm rooves and cold pavements, hope and her dead eyed twin despair. Where is hope when the ground sinks beneath you, the sky no more than a misremembered dream? Hope bends into many shapes in patient hands. A dented can of beans, A wilted carrot, that mid week phone call That brings you back from the brink. The evening air crackling with pride palms and pots in fevered percussion. Bristol will carry this hope into the future. I'm not sure what that future looks like but you should meet me there, under your favourite tree or a lonely streetlight and we will greet this city, our old friend with new stories, a chorus of feathers on her shoulders.