The Bridge
The Bridge
The fog cool and grey
wraps around me like a shroud.
Nearby a foghorn sounds its mournful dirge
while far below
the water cold invites me to her bosom.
I stand beside the rust red rail
watching traffic passing by.
Where are they going
all these humans in their steel cocoons
who pay no mind to me?
And why should they,
who are my to them?
I have nothing to enrich their lives
any more than I have anything to offer mine,
except the water far below.
There are bridges everywhere.
The Bridge of Sighs in Venice,
romantic,
but hardly adequate for what I have in mind.
The Lion’s Gate in Vancouver,
now that one would suffice.
The Tower Bridge in London Town,
a bloody scene in times gone by.
The Brooklyn Bridge, no good,
they sold it for a nickel.
This one is the only one for me—
The Golden Gate
with its red towers floating
in the damp grey evening fog.
Others have left this span before me,
a few have even lived to tell the tale.
To me it is a fitting end
for a life no longer worthy of its breath.
It’s later now and traffic less
so quickly over the rail I go,
flying through the darkness,
dropping like a stone—
Please God, I want to stop, go back….
I think I’m screaming
but the wind tears the sound away.
In the darkness the water soon I’ll meet,
soon, too soon, here it is—
cold and wet and dark and dark and dark.
Vi Jones
©August 29, 2006
The fog cool and grey
wraps around me like a shroud.
Nearby a foghorn sounds its mournful dirge
while far below
the water cold invites me to her bosom.
I stand beside the rust red rail
watching traffic passing by.
Where are they going
all these humans in their steel cocoons
who pay no mind to me?
And why should they,
who are my to them?
I have nothing to enrich their lives
any more than I have anything to offer mine,
except the water far below.
There are bridges everywhere.
The Bridge of Sighs in Venice,
romantic,
but hardly adequate for what I have in mind.
The Lion’s Gate in Vancouver,
now that one would suffice.
The Tower Bridge in London Town,
a bloody scene in times gone by.
The Brooklyn Bridge, no good,
they sold it for a nickel.
This one is the only one for me—
The Golden Gate
with its red towers floating
in the damp grey evening fog.
Others have left this span before me,
a few have even lived to tell the tale.
To me it is a fitting end
for a life no longer worthy of its breath.
It’s later now and traffic less
so quickly over the rail I go,
flying through the darkness,
dropping like a stone—
Please God, I want to stop, go back….
I think I’m screaming
but the wind tears the sound away.
In the darkness the water soon I’ll meet,
soon, too soon, here it is—
cold and wet and dark and dark and dark.
Vi Jones
©August 29, 2006
posted by Vi Jones @ 9:13 AM
5 comments
5 Comments:
Wow, now here's a place I'd like to visit...
Anita Marie
Vi, this is great.
Thank you all for your positive comments.
Sometimes in my writing I like to deal with the darker side of the human psyche. It's not that I have any desire to jump from a bridge, nothing like that at all. It comes, I think from my writer's desire to know, and there are times I allow my imagination free rein. Some of my best work, I feel, comes from the dark side.
Vi
Yes, Vi, I have found this too, better out than in. This was a brilliant piece of dark. You say some interesting things Lois, about journeying and ancestors, as mine came here to that very pier. Makes you think of circles and how history tends to shape us;-)
Excellent Vi. Like Anita Marie I would like to visit this place. Thanks!
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