I was wandering in the town square in Ripon in the summer of 1973. I remember walking without any particular aim. I had time to spare. I was light and free.
I looked up and saw the verse carved into the frieze at the top of the Town Hall — an adaptation of the verse in the Psalm:
“Except Ye Lord Keep Ye Cittie Ye Wakeman Waketh in Vain.”
I knew the verse well enough, but the substitution caught my eye. The Town Hall had replaced watchman with wakeman. The word looked both familiar and out of place, like something that had slipped through a crack in time.
I later discovered that Ripon’s historic Hornblower — the Wakeman — would blow a horn at 9 p.m. each night to signal the start of the security patrol. But I didn’t know that then.
I stood for a while, looking at the inscription, taking in its message. Then I moved on. The square went on being a square. The day went on being a day.
But the detail stayed.
Ripon 1973
Summer light on the square. Stone warm underfoot. A bus purred at the kerb.
I walked without aim — air moving easily, the day loose about me.
High on the Town Hall frieze: Ye Wakeman waketh… letters cut like dry reeds.
Wakeman.
I stood a moment. The square held its shape. The day went on.
The word remained.