THE BRIDGE

Quite how it was I came to be

left standing there, unmet,

is – with parents – buried now.

Whether school trip, footie match

or mis-timed party date,

I can only speculate.

 

Maybe they were detained

somehow. I didn’t know.

Either I had no coins

or Button ‘B’ would not return them.

Daylight drained from the blank stare

of ticket office windows.

 

Our branch line had closed

more than a year before,

but lacking patience to sit tight

in the gloom-filled forecourt,

I knew its tracks would bring me home

if I followed their line.

 

Taking parallel roads,

my spindly legs set off, good pace

into the rising gale.

Wet faced with rain,

wind ripping at loose coat toggles.

By the time I reached the sea

 

it is an over-howl:

the high whistle of shrouds and stays,

halyards rattling against masts

so loud I barely hear

passing traffic. Even on the bridge

where the pavement narrows.

 

Close to the edge

I could taste the brine of full tide,

spindrift waves churning below.

Easy for a boy to slip through

between railings –

a deep plunge into doubt.

 

Drawing breath on the other side,

puddles consolidate –

quicker to jump than walk around.

Some distance yet

to find my sense of direction,

how way leads on to way.

 

Or – in the nowhere zone

of a moonless roundabout – might not.

Sudden headlights splash its signpost.

A car pulls up, door opening.

I recognise my father’s brow,

creased with sharp relief.

 

 

ii. 2022