The Bridge

The Bridge

Cycling to school,
I’d long for it,
I’d race to cross it.

Led into it
Through a wooded grove,
Trees arching into soft green light,
A slow curve,
A dip,
A final turn into the bridge itself,
And then the lift –
The swooping arc –
A ten year old kid
Whooping her way over a hump-backed bridge:
Heart and wheels in flight.

Now, forty years on,
I drive – don’t cycle – to the self-same bridge: still there.
But everything is safe now.
Homogenised.
The road is ironed flat.

How, then, can you explain
That the child in me,
Still races forward,
Still feels the leap,
The lift,
The flight
On a bridge long gone?

(c) Anne McMaster 2015

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