along a country lane
where the bridge is weak, its guardrail rotten.
But short-term girders, long left permanent,
are strong enough – until they’re not.
Beneath, the river (what remains of it)
washes shallow
over a fallen arch of bricks.
An echo of rain held in its ripples.
Beyond, above the makeshift weir,
crayfish dwell in a chilly pond.
Swim if you want, or watch
how water flows through gaps like sheets of glass.
No need to list what has got worse –
days are where we live them.
Immerse yourself, look up, see swallows sail
three-sixty baby blue degrees.
viii. 2026
· days are where we live – from Days, Philip Larkin
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