The bridge-
goodwill-intention built, teacher-abyss taught,supine lies, in its bed of stone,
straddling the canyon-
silent its service and strong as the trust
of the travellers in it, its power
to bear and convey weight. Ever present
in the now, and the permanent rituals
narrated by the dust of wayfaring, it
connects bridge-users from within
themselves to all things that matter
on the other side. The age it feels
in its bones and creaks
with impressions unseen, are
better sensed by the oldest
bridge-farer who too has borne
the load of life, long enough
to understand each other.
Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
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Written on 2024-06-03 at 02:35
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