By Richard Mather
Manchester, what can you do to ease the pain of living? How can time be made to bend to our own special rules? Existing in lulls, in the cycles that encompass the city, I am part of the traffic that stops and starts as the people come and go. Manchester, what are you made of? Concrete slabs and glass atop old stone: layers of passing time that can be measured like rings in an ancient oak. The Hilton hotel; St Peter’s Library, Portland Tower; St Anne’s Church. These are the vertices in the vortex of our accumulated histories. Manchester, I want you to be perfect, an unreasonable demand I guess, given that nothing can be perfect in a universe that’s unfinished and flawed. Nonetheless I see you climbing through the mists of glorious broadcasts. And I am still here, impatiently waiting for your final revelation to the world.
Comments