Tear the statues down put them in a museum have their achievements weighed against their modern moral faults Give them context It feels wrong to venerate values we no longer share
Tear the problematic statues down it’s time to move on They’ve had their light they’ve had their vaunted praise let them slip into the past I don’t want to walk beside the likeness of a slave trader on my morning commute despite their pigeon-shit coat that always makes me smirk
Tear the statues down The older folks may say it’s a pity the folly of an ignorant youth but times; they change often abruptly and sometimes it’s appropriate to force a step change to send a message Like scientists reevaluating theories based on new research Shouldn’t we reassess elevated heroes of the past
Tear the problematic statues down let’s build new ones better ones let them inspire hope and unity and in 100 years, if they must fall again then so be it History is not lost because of it books will go on, museums go on providing that all-important context for those who seek it…
In the lush laugh of London I indulge the urge to walk so freely Let my mind wander wide entertain all its distractions But what I find is that your presence hangs so vividly behind my eyes That if I pause a moment or check the pulse of my emotions It’s you… It’s you… I don’t want to be here if it means I am without you
Long live the hours that are ours!
In the glowing gadget’s glare your words vibrate into my world and from my bed, so far away you’re preparing for a lonely slumber And what I find is that your gravity has its beautifully fierce grip on me So, if I take a step from where you are my feet begin to ache as they’re pulled toward It’s you… It’s you… I can’t bear to be here If it means I am without you
Long live the hours that are ours!
In the rain’s relentless ruining of roads and December’s constant wish for cold I’m sure I’m going to slip on ice fall in love so hard And what I find you’re just the right kind the complimentary soul I’ve been writing about So, if I let this be what it longs to be My hands, my head, my heart they turn towards It’s you… It’s you… I can’t entertain the thought of being here if it means I am without you
Long live the hours that are ours! Long live the hours as we entangle these lives of ours…
I used to hate this part of town After London it felt like stepping back in time as if all our momentum to the capital had been lost these shops with their hand-painted signs I didn’t recognise the names they’re not triplicated on every high street
And now I sit in the Crooked Café the waitress always tries to remember my ‘usual’ but I love that she never quite gets it right gives us something to laugh about breaks the ice as I sit alone and eat drink my tea and sketch my little lines
The walls adorned with guitars and records someone really loves the eighties the food is good the best I’ve found ‘round here the perfect way to start a Saturday it’s always busy people drinking coffee and talking through their lives there’s material everywhere for a writer-thief like me
Afterwards I’ll drift down the lanes between the crooked dwellings past out-houses, slate roofs, shared yards neat boxes all pushed so close together clinging to the hills I’ve learned to love this feeling just absorb the history let the thinning shadow of industry that’s still cast across this city seep into me
But for now I sit by the window stare out into the old street feel the season a little more keenly so grateful to have found my peace here where I can stop and think and write my little lines…