Sleeper Bridge Poem by John Rickell

The little bridge is simple, crude,
Old wooden sleepers from a railway track
Which carried thousands I've no doubt
On holidays to sea-side towns,
Or coal for kitchen fires, washing boilers,
Children drying on the hearth.,
Keeping out the snow.
Now rotting spans the ditch
Enough for dog and man.

You'll not find it on the map
Or Tom-Tom screen
Too small for their attention,
But every day we come this way
Anti clockwise walk the wood
Listening to the birds,
Shaded from the noonday sun
When last it shone!

This is a simple task......
Walking in a wood across a bridge
Too small for cars and rotting as I speak.
Who cares for this?
Why do I tell you this?
Tomorrow may never come,
But if it does and the sleepers fall
None will care, but me.

I cannot jump the ditch,
Take away the bridge
Or never build it.....
We shall have to go right round,
Or shout across the gap
To tell the flowers and the ferns
We'll call back later...
Round the other way.

Just four bits of wood
Dropped across the gap
No rails to stop one falling
Greasy in the rain, hidden when it snows.
A bridle way, childhood magic,
Pooh sticks, splashing pebbles
Water-vole and rat.

This an ordinary wood
Few will know it’s here
Fewer still to care
But here we talk with nature
Commune in simple words
In country terms.
The fading timber logs
Delicate and mortal,
Welcome muddy boots!
More conversations than in town
Despite its mobile phone and internet
The papers and the crowded jostle.