Oh, to be a statue on a plinth

My daughter and I went on an impromptu girlie trip to Paris at the end of January and it was delightful. The architecture and art around the city was so impressive. 

(Side note: I always find it hard to truly enjoy the opulent beauty and pomp in Europe's capital cities, because a little freedom fighting Shaniqua voice pops up in my head taunting 'so who built these buildings huh?' or 'this beauty is on the backs of slaves child!' and a favourite of hers 'This is built from sugar, cotton and tobacco money!'. Shhh Shaniqua, let me live!) 

Despite the protests, I managed to push through, compartmentalise my thoughts and enjoy the beauty on display. 

Looking up and around, I could not help but notice all of the imposing statues above, below and around us, chests and chins protruding with pride; . 'Who are these people?' I thought. 'What histories are hidden in the names of the men and women emblazoned on the walls of these intricately designed buildings?

Fast forward a week and I'm in central London to see an event at the Institute of Contemporary Arts that my sister had contributed to. En route, I was pretty impressed by how beautiful our own city is. I observe how people walk about speedily on their own agendas here and there, and wonder if they notice all of the beauty around them and there again, I am faced with the all too familiar grand statues, adorning the streets above, below and around. I am prompted to put pen to paper and I write....

Oh to be a statue on a plinth

Oh to be a statue on a plinth.

So deeply revered and yet so regularly ignored. 

Walked past. 

Overlooked. 

Invisible. 

Insignificant. 

Oh to be a statue on a plinth.