The colour of the buildings in town are much brighter today. I think it’s the recent commissions. Drawing all those bloody buildings. Desperately searching for colour, trying to draw it out and make it better than it seems.
Most of the structures are old. Except where they were bombed in the war. Those ones have been replaced by 20th century disasters. Blue-tiled shipping containers placed systematically atop plastic boxes. No love, no detail. Just empty plastic monsters looming overtop the red chimney’s.
Looking closer and closer and closer until I’m inside the bricks completely surrounded by red ochre breathing in the dust, swallowing it like it was air.
The moss on the bluestone is emerald green. Glowing, in it’s own slow glory. Ever pulsating spreading farther and farther over the hard dark surface. Only seen by the naked eye over generations. It’s free to do what it wants any old time. They should write a song about it.
Enveloped by the soft comforting layer, the bluestone creaks and groans.
It’s old today. Happy birthday it murmurs to itself.
No one else to listen.
Not the moss or the Gulls.
And the sky is too far away to notice.

Filed under: Arts & Culture, Humour & Irony, Words & Rants, commissions, happy birthday, liverpool, sadness in everyday things, the egg cafe