Liscooley Bridge Poem by bryan wallace

Standing on Liscooley bridge, a Sunday afternoon,
The River Finn in flood flows through stone arches –
The water fast flowing beneath my feet.
Not the tranquil, meandering murmuring flow of July
But the swollen angry flow of February flood-water.

It takes all that’s in its path – the dead tree branches –
Dead animals and the untidy and the ugly –
The remains of thoughtless humans discarded litter.
Completing the eternal never-ending cycle -
Of rain cloud to earth – to river – to the seas –
Evaporating and rejoining the rains clouds once again.

It’s all water under the bridge or so they say -
And long you’ve stood here and weathered
Many storms since your completion in 1801.
The uneducated though highly skilled men
Who built you are now long gone -
Dead buried and forgotten.

But you still stand strong and proud -
As an eternal monument –
To their stone-mason and civil engineering skills.
I am sure that the modern day traffic you carry
Far exceeds your intended design specification.
Yet much water has flowed underneath you
And many long dead men have walked over you
In the two centuries past since your inception.

I am sure that you will still span the banks
Of the fast flowing River Finn when I
No longer will be there to lean on your stone wall.
You remained unchanged in this ever-changing world.