Bridging

Bridge 2fR

This bridge is neither here nor there,
as a dream its own domain.
Ambush is the common snare:
the troll lives under and the pig
astride the exit beats nightstick
on palm to warm him up
to your imminent harm.

Under,  flood has almost reached the arches;
or ice lies cackling-cracked with bitterness;
or fetid swamp, fly-clouded, would swallow;
or the estate, lounging at broken gates,
cleaning dirty nails with shiv, awaits the lost;
freight train's endless clanking deafens.

Wind twists with resonance, hums destruction;
a broken plank spins (don't look) down;
heavy cart lurches capstones from parapet;
moss has grown in every crack and join;
the tensest ropes are fraying nervously;
rust itself is rusting, needs repaint.

This is the one they told you not to cross;
they drew the line and you've stepped over it -
so said we'll cross it when we come to it,
and now we have... and now we have.
Although the sign said 'Hope is Contraband',
we left behind the empty, waving hand.

This bridge is neither here nor there,
as a dream its own domain.
Ambush is the common snare:
the troll lives under and the pig
astride the exit beats nightstick
on palm to warm him up
to your imminent harm.

.................

This, below, was written in 1976, Oxford.

On Folly Bridge

Swollen river surges after autumn rain;
reeds, driftwood, sycamore, birch, alder,
willow leaves, drift down, brown or sere,
divided by stone piers. As I look from the bridge,
people and traffic cross at my back.

Only ragwort retains its summer luster,
there in the waste ground. For the rest,
forms are fragile - buildings and lamp posts
in sharp winter lines.

I pick up a loose chipping and throw it:
impact slides with the flood
under the bridge, but upstream ripples struggle
against the flow as paddling ducks do,
who start at the splash half expectantly.

These slow arcs feed my following eyes,
weaker and weaker out of observation,
until they wake again to the surging river –
willow, reed, sycamore, birch and alder.

..........