There's something
I find inexplicable
about a bridge

even the smallest
the most remote
the oldest
neglected
forgotten
dilapidated

especially
if it's wood-made
( that of metal
doesn't appeal
to me)


who had been
before me?
what was
their each story?

it's not the crossover
but a symbol
of life, of time
of an unknown individual
an unrecorded chronicle
shrouded in memory
and mystery

a tiny lad was I then
on my lonely way to school
bird-songs I heard
mingled with the water's murmuring
somehow I always felt happy

I return now
after half a century
the wooden bridge
has collapsed
there's a sign that reads:
' No entry'

still there remains
that tall oak-tree
in silent majesty
a bird-song drifts
in the cool air
sounds so familiar
the water is placid
as before-- the row
of wild flowers
has survived time

on a half-broken
chair I sit pensively
lost in reverie.