Temple Meads
This city toppled deities but left their plinths empty. Certain what is wrong; agnostic what is right. They worship installations instead. Giant foam banana in a lone tree: a statement piece in a language no-one speaks. Graffiti dialects on walls and streets. Little rebellions against centuries-established industries: individual protests while the rest of the city sleeps.
She lit a cigarette in the taxi rank and exhaled that she liked this city. Its energy. Wafting grey smoke, I said the same. Still, it’s a shame there are no gods at Temple Meads.
