I’ve been working away in Coventry since June – I have been, literally, Sent To Coventry. The project we’ve been doing here has been expansive, challenging and at times very hard: a youth theatre production coupled with a TV production is no mean feat.
But that’s another story, and one for after the transmission so’s I don’t get into any trouble (not that I would as noone reads this – except maybe (and thank you) my two subscribers). While I was seated backstage today I started to jot down a Cov sonnet which I suppose is inspired by its often rather dreary architecture and the sad history which bore it:
O fateful twisting ring-ed Road of Cov,
Whose exits one to nine swoop sharp and low,
In aspect city-fitting like a glove
Of concrete or a sock, a washing blow.
The AXA oblong thinks itself, reflects
Each passing sky, outmoded idea.
Cathedral spire whose roofless mouth inflects
The burning echoes, siren-scream through years
Of incandescent steely reveries
And hyper-hopeful modernistic mores
With mega-boom untold prosperities
Spread over umpteen polyester floors.
But we forget, O lest (oh yes) we do
That history’s a question, not a clue.