A Bridge

A Bridge long poem

Photo by theholyllama

I approach the 160° turn to the left,
The public toilets, still there. Those strange,
Striped warning poles and a sign in
Old engineering font (like London
Underground, but rusted) saying ‘STOP WHEN
BELL RINGS’. Up its gentle elevation to the now
Disused offices, paint peeling and windows boarded up
And a shortcut of steps at its side – whereupon
I mused that the Brylcreamed-men in glass-stiff shirts

And slacks drank strained tea or played cards
In between or reading a paper, perhaps?
Letting that grain barge pass, much to the
Annoyance of the snaking traffic (heavy industry
Going home for tea). And I cannot help
But admire the lovely blue railings and
Clay-red bricks, brass fittings and the date
On a tile above the door – 1901, carved in sans-serif,
No doubt opened by a moustached mayor of the day,

And his wife, of low self-esteem, dutifully at his side.
The small, organised gathering, giving up
Their time at a ribbon being cut.
And now, of course, the lights don’t flash
And are misted from the grit. The bridge
Remains there, pointing at the clear,
Blue sky, fingers pointing together,
Pondering decay. The slow brown river,
Never caring, with the sun, helping it on its way.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of

Bridge Burning Down

Bridge Burning Down long poem

Well you ain’t been nothing but a thorn in my side since you came into my life I thought by now you’d take a hint I don’t really want you in my life but still you insist on coming over

Once Upon A Bridge

Once Upon A Bridge short poem

I stood on the over-bridge, yellow phosphorescence beckons– Round moon like bosom of goddess Venus , nipple for a touch; a lapwing cries over the night. A sudden rustle in the undergrowth awakened the ephemeral days of my youth, fallen

The Sapling Under The Bridge

The Sapling Under The Bridge short poem

I’ve heard that plants need the sun, else they shrivel and they die; but I saw a sapling under a bridge, through the other side of pane. It seemed like it were surviving, maybe even managing a bit of thriving;