Look up. The shadows of sunlight on sandstone. The mouldings in the stone, intricate, but forgotten by those far below. A graveyard of design, engineering, history, effort and love.
Imagine the chiseler at work, in a workshop, with his tools. Then high up on a ladder, or scaffolding, sand slipping away into the hot streams of air, mixing with the workman’s sweat, melding with his thoughts.
Now, be-mossed, greened by damp and time, and the occasional encrustation of pigeon shit.
A billowing black plastic bag, tied roughly around a street sign, no longer for public view. The wind has pierced its synthetic strength and stretch, blowing holes in the substrate and allowing the sign to peep through. Soon people will be able to see the sign again, and perhaps be mis-directed by the wind and its work. The occasion of wind, an unseen marauder.
Clouds scuttle observing the scenes below, soaking up the emotions of the city dwellers; their anger and their tears.
Then lights appear as dusk beckons. Neon lights. Traffic lights. Repetitive and timed, lacking the beauty and the camouflage of the Victorian lantern. Everything lit up so bright and wide it hurts. No stars in sight.
But which street? Do you recognise it? Where the architecture and the art and the lights and the cars converge. Any street and every street. Your street and my street and every city centre street. Abundant with observations still to be had, there for the taking.
This one is in Glasgow though, of course. Imagine it with your inside eyes.