Although he did not condone the toppling of the statue of Edward Colston (17thc slave trader and local philanthropist) the act ‘was a piece of historical poetry’ according to Bristol mayor, Marvin Rees, in an interview with ‘The Guardian’ on June 13th, 2020.
They don’t think much of your history,
the local partisans have punked
you over for posterity,
painted your fine calves blue,
and scrawled your guilty countenance
a livid red. Your toppling was
long overdue from that high pedestal.
You looked down on the mob
as they came for you with improvised
ropes to harness your shoulders,
pulling you to the ground,
rolling you towards the dock,
free trade style
where they dropped
you into the harbour at a jaunty
angle—the way your own slave ships
consigned the dead and near-expired
to the oblivious ocean.
Next day, a salvage crew in hi-vis
erected a gallows to haul you out,
and you emerged
a model despot—strung up,
heels lashed—gently swinging,
filthy waters pouring
from die cast pockets,
a strand of umbilical rope
still twisted around your neck,
no need to breathe, no sinews crushed,
you have become the gargoyle
of a spectacle they all want
to subscribe to,
your hollow form muzzle-loaded,
ironclad—adorned
by a discarded bicycle tyre,
hitching a lift on broken coat tails,
its bleak heraldry
returning your name to zero.
**
lise colas 