The Old Wooden Bridge

The Old Wooden Bridge

Where the silver birch

and the rotunda meet

by the trickling stream

you will find wild trout

suckling at the waters lip

surrounded by bull-rushes

rustling with the oaken leaves

delicately warbling with young chaffinches

in their first summers flight,

dancing in the treetops of light,

swaying to the beat,

of the wind waves,

heaving through the branches and the heat.

There, i will sit,

upon the old wooden bridge,

in the forgotten corner,

to watch the squirrels, red,

forage amongst the detritus,

the undergrowth,

the manicured ground,

littered with remnants

of passing days, halcyon nights,

hoping too and fro,

between the discarded past

and futures bright dance;

A wasteland of remembrance.

Sometimes,

to stop at the waters edge,

to sip at still rivulets,

in the afternoon heat,

blissfully bounding ever onward,

over root and bark alike.

in this corner, preen and green,

quietly nestled in the midst of a modern age,

Sometimes, the ancient archive, is alive.

Natures purest ways, the Iskonski,

existent in peaceful slumber,

a restive remembrance

amongst the cacophony,

of an unbridled chaos,

littering futures,

with a present carelessness.

Yet, natures ancient ways, remain.

Where the silver birch

and the rotunda meet

by the trickling stream

you will find wild trout

suckling at the waters lip,

under the shade,

of the Old Wooden Bridge.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010