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On any bridge
I’ve been standing
Lost with my hands on a cold railing
while autumn covered women cycled by
with carefully chosen apples in the handlebar basket

Now twenty years later the bridges are gone
And I’m drifting down the river with the belly in the air
Like a fish teased to death by the bait
Sick of distant irony

Under the sky the ongoing clouds is heavy with semi-resigned repetitions
And the boatmans yellow oar gently nudges my face which dives for a moment
So that only one eye is seen
Madly staring upwards into the air

Hi Pete,

I love the dark, reflective mood of your piece; the mystical undertows.
I took the liberty of editing it a little.

Regards, Mat.


Resurrection

On many a bridge
I stood, lost,
hands on a cold railing
while autumn covered women cycled by
with carefully chosen apples in the handlebar basket

Now, twenty years on
bridges are gone
and I’m drifting
down some river with my belly in the air;
a fish
teased to death by bait
and repetitious mists;

the boatman’s yellow oar Gently nudges
my sinking face
and only one eye is seen
madly staring upward.


My editing is only a start, of course. But this poem is worth working on Pete.

Hi mat
Thanks for your edits, its appreciated
Peter