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Saintbridge Balancing Pond


On the Bridge

I walk across the bridge,
Its wooden planks unstable,
The end unreachable,
Stems of flowers winding, bronze slow-worms through the walls.

Honeysuckle, dog rose, red and white valerian,
Ivy-leaved toadflax
And the bellflowers, their purple lost as the fading sun extracts their colour for its clouds.

The river rushes under me, the water lulling the sun to sleep.
A grey wagtail lands on the ivy-strangled handrail, a pheasant squawk echoes.

The green-collared bird flutters up to roost.

A single line of prose

They sit on the telephone wire like bronze statues, their wings gold-green like sun on oak.

Viola Bradshaw