Yesterday I tried to set on paper, something of a place
where I would walk when I was younger,
One that now– looking back– seemed so full of wonder and delight.
A bridge, enclosed in windows that looped
all the way ’round and sprung high from the side of a town centre car park.
The heavy steps of mum and dad would shake the floor
and start the tingling in my feet. You were held above a nameless street
as cars and people moved beneath you.
It led to the cinema, with high ceilings
and the mingling smells of treats trapped in the carpet.
The films, of course, were a treat as well,
but on the way back you’d walk across the bridge– a space
between the world you’d just inhabited
and the car ride home again. And there– with the blood
still rushing back to your feet– the thought
floated in the dusty air that maybe it was all real
and that– as you sat fixed in your seat– the world outside
was changing too. And I miss the spring
in those hopeful strides– past the inviting depths of
the school night dusk where you can live
your new-learnt truths.
I can’t go there now, and perhaps its best that I can’t
because I don’t think I really miss the place;
I’m only chasing the enchanting glow
that’s drifting further into the haze. And the more I try
to pull it into view, the edges get softened by my clumsy
hands and failing wits.
But I still cup the flames of that feeling
of crossing the Galaxy bridge.
Uncultured Review 