Memoirs Of The Creaking Bridge Poem by Gavin Kenneth Shaw

1.
Picture

The rickety creaking bridge,
His yielded wood,
In unpinned sun is joyous; where day children flock in a low skirting pitch.
Where beneath the river bulbs weeds tussle,
Strumming the watery buzzing thuds, the eyelids-brown- are in prayer.

The bubbly effervescent reeds,
By guild they swim in skinning lights,
They beacon,
Flaxen saplings,
Shows an afterglow, the afterglow simmering,
Where death is pleaded in the stirs; reddening,
The flowing affirms the bee-
In his chock grandiose colour.

2.
Autumn

Creaking bridge,

Underneath is serendipitous crooking,
Under which is the floating chalk of the trees;
The brown whispering water oil; scampers and scuttles in the blood,
Dripping-
Around us dust burns,
And autumnal leaves are weaving-
In the brailing of the puddles- small winds stir,
Where there are fences swimming the road,
And there is rust in brows; where the country axe falls over, where the radio hums.

3.
Passenger

Creaking bridge,
Old Susan strolls upon it,
And she grasses her jewels with a mane,
Singing grandmother,
Colder in her eyes,
No time does time forget those ones whom do harrow in her silvery spine.

4.
Summer

Creaking bridge, memoirs of the creaking bridge,
The shipping auburn bridge,
The russet coffee thighs,
In release the moon jiggles her brazier, above-
London rain with his summery hose,
The bank is stirring and sloshing in mud;
Where the urchins bones are secret kept-
Those graves in the boards of his breath,
Where bikes ruffling from above, pass-
Where light drapes through the straight cracks,
The collar of the sun is bathing.

5.

Where the hunchback shade seeps the twigs,
The flake’s lids are praising the Irish tolls- the grass on seasons grows,
The mahogany jaunting bridge,
Below the bellow of the sap, slides the Macintosh scents that fury-
That might is silence- still and hush.

The light bulb is broken,
The tea is unmade,
The door is on his hinges,
The quiver, the shudder has no bed.

6.
Night

And the night chants in silvers,
Among the remnants of sun sparks,
And the dreaming coughs out his vent,
Sighing the swinging branches of his west,
Our traveled pillar lays out his bearded seat,
Where passages frail like a pencil in the storm, where ships far- rock,
Where the night fades into the mornings locks,

7.
Morning

The dirt in the stream swallows,
The chains in his pipe scull,
The deathly muting,
The pastel longing,
Then the singing stops,
And the radio halts,
And the rickety bridge- creaks.

By Gavin Kenneth Shaw
Copyright 2007