Armada House, did not invade

perceptions in my youth. I barely noticed it,

stuck there, half-way up, yet another Bristol hill.

Too busy then, dreaming of The Smoke.

I left, it stayed, floating in its concrete way,

on Dove Street, above Stokes Croft. Near a pub

I liked for its vintage glazed green tiles. Pretty

certain it served Smiles: The Hare on the Hill,

survivor from a vanished age. When I’m back

these days, a locally-connected stranger, a vision

of a council block elsewhere has changed

my view. If I pass now, I pay attention

to this one’s form and shape. Don’t dismiss it

as generic, council high-rise, it’s charismatic –

especially at night. Inside, the colour of the light

can change from flat to flat. Never starkly yellow,

or bright white, there’s red and blue, while,

eight-floors up, some wag’s gone for purple.

Defying the grey façade’s straight lines, pigeon-spikes,

grimy, vertical waste pipes, fussily officious signs.

Beyond the glaring of the stairwell, sticky buttons

on the lift, I picture busy lives within: laughter, loving,

sleeping; mugs of tea, shared TV dinners. Then recall

another tower, where all this too had once existed.