Posted: 11/01/22

Sunset 27 November - Karen Kaye

On a windy, wet, cloud swept day I ventured out to step and stand alongside the stony silent statue of William W.  He represented the changes he had made to the city in terms of freedom and a new mindset.  I was blown away to the past where sailing ships paid homage to him and to the city.  I represented a warm heart open to truth and to the goodwill of the city.  I was last at Queen’s Gardens to make a statement to accept refugees.  I felt a sense of peace tonight.  Of uniqueness.  Of a vista surrounded by river and sea and trade.  The traffic seemed bound together by an invisible string pulling them in the direction of home.  The clouds too seemed summoned by a heavenly power as they drifted and provided a natural backdrop to the industry and business upfront.  Starlings swirled as steps stilled.  The highlight was the last foot passengers home who were in a group together, as though huddled there by the might of Storm Arwen herself.  They passed by the foot of the statue and I wondered if William could sense them there and I suddenly felt an overburdening sadness that the statue was not important to people any more.  They were mere youngsters, more attune to the sharp metal spikes on top of another ‘skyscraper’ touching the sky nearby.

But then the moment happened.  I was released from my concentration and focus by a raised hand and a wave.  I don’t know who started it, but I waved back as though held by a string, like a puppet.

A solitary cyclist looked through for a path home.  Seagulls soared.  Clouds hurried by.  The steam from the ships was eaten by the darkness.  A lone crow swooped.  The ripples and reflections on Queen’s Gardens pond grew dark, with no need to reflect the solitary starers who had passed by earlier, glaring into the water to find hope and the billowy leaves of the tree carried away by the spirits of passers-by.

I looked.  I saw.  I reflected.  I loved it.  Thank you.

‘Covid’ stood out in the graffiti along the river.  Black and white.  Not at all like the colours of the city merging in the writing nearby.  Hull City of Colour.


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