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Two views from the Erskine Bridge.


When I was twelve…

I know not where my spittle went
when I spat off the Erskine Bridge.
I watched it dance, trapeze and see-saw
Ever-diminishing on its descent
Like the dot on the old valve TVs.

Those first elasticated exaggerations
Like a spinning chest-expander
Threatening to separate
Then leaving my focus
on its windy way to Old Kilpatrick’s pavements.

When I was 49

Oh my what wondrous spans of steel
These man-made structures
fill me with dread.
My gaze interrupted,
my hand raised to feel
where some little bastard
has spat on my head.

Submitted: Friday, December 06, 2013
Edited: Saturday, December 07, 2013

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