Fallen Idol


I met a bruised and smiling activist,
elated, vindicated in their deed,
who’d tossed into the harbour’s swell at Bristol
the form of Portland stone to fishes feed
Of one whose eight-foot statue’d stood amidst
the multicoloured throng and took their tribute
without consent, for protest loudly cries
for better words that spray cans now attribute
Than those which on the pedestal appear:
I’m Edward Colston, virtuous and wise
Look on my slaver’s death count and despair!
Donations don’t erase as some may claim
So drag him from the harbour not for air
but to his final resting place of shame.

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