She was an astronaut in stone,
all her building
was meant to span the gap
between earth and our imagining
and this bridge was the same,
connecting us to the green islands,
pilgrims to their inner place.
Even now the bridge seems
to arch above the pizza shacks
and flats that hunch on either bank.
Here I first saw birds on black water,
here I kissed my first cheeseclothed girl.
Sometimes the bridge was less than solid,
a bridge too far, a dreamed of bridge,
a bridge that held at one end
a drifting fleet of moonlit pubs,
more brilliant than any field of stars.
It was a bridge of history,
Kings, bishops, bodysnatchers,
and a million more melted
on either side like ice or smoke,
a bridge of mystery, indeed:
only a hundred yards to walk,
and the infinity of space between.