In The Shadow of the Bridge
The bridge was never holy -
just steel stretched between
opposite banks,
a need accommodated.
The river,
like all bodies of water,
is indifferent to its surrounds,
takes what men mistake for permanence:
girders, pylons, trusses, suspender cables,
and devours them.
Fog rises -
all faces are half-formed.
You stopped praying to your mother
when the prayers turned inwards.
Windows deceive.
So does love.
Yet the house is here.
The night likewise.
And your hand is
a battlefield retired,
its scars unreadable,
but mine to trace
with these survivor’s fingers.
And silence is our inheritance.
The war is ended.
The fortresses are demolished.
The doctrine disbelieved.
The air has been returned to us.
Just breath crossing the fragile space
between two bodies that remain.
We name nothing.
Stones are stones.
Bridges fall or stand—
what matters is the ground beneath us.
About the Author: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Calliope. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.
Image Credit: Waller Hugh Paton “Railway Bridge over the River Cart, Paisley” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 