Crossing the bridge *

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Dust on powerlines makes them hum in the rain

as you drive uphill and take the turn

 

to the little bridge, where each car waits to cross

a single span over the tree-hung space

 

one from each side, like plaiting hair.

Assembling the day, what it will require,

 

you dream at the wheel, stopping, moving,

just eyes, hands, and the slow uncovering

 

of thought. There is a kind of grace

in this small yielding, in the measure of its pace

 

as the early rain is lifting, trunk to branch

to leaf. Silver, silver, silver, the struts of the bridge

 

go by, and now the windscreen frames

the grids and cornerings of the coming day.

 

Your thoughts fall into gear. The car hums on

trailing only the faintest cloak of rain.

 

 * This poem first appeared in Famous Reporter no. 29 8/04

 

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8 thoughts on “Crossing the bridge *

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