the bridge

The Bridge

At one time it was strong,
and stoic,
even though it barely rose above the ground.
As a child I would stand at the edge
of the bridge,
On slow country days
Painted in black and white,
and stare across.
Across the long stone path,
into the county over.
And let my mind run wild
god knows what I was thinking
but it was peaceful
so I was peaceful.
When I turned 18
I drove across the bridge
cursing the town
and its people
I drove across the country
and flew across the world
I found love
I found war
I saw death
And life
I laughed
And I cried.
Slowly I grew homesick,
And came home to Kentucky.
I drove down those narrow roads
with white fences
and bluegrass.
the fresh smell of manure
and bourbon cooking
the cardinals
and robins sung welcoming songs
all the elements of nature
held a magnificent parade
welcoming me.
The narrow road tightened
a gate with a sign read
'road closed'
just before the bridge.
I parked and got out,
jumped the gate,
and walked down to the river.
The road was full of potholes
and long weeds grew
threw the cracks of the pavement.
So I stood on the hillside
and stared at the mossy stones
that once stood strong
glimmering in the clear water,
all that was left
was their unsalvageable rubble.
Trees engulfed the backside of my hometown
where I once stood
and gazed over to where I now stand.
Nature had taken my bastion of seclusion
and made its own
I sat there for hours
and watched the olive green leaves
flutter with the breeze,
the raccoons and squirrels scatter
along the water way
the clear blue reflection
of the clear blue sky
in the gentle flowing water.
The brown muddy banks,
the numbingly grey pillars
that stood on either side of the bridge.
But the bridge was gone,
and I was alone.