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.