The Swing Bridge Poem by Robin Fulton

The bridge holds because it gives way.
Grey wires, planks weathered white
give to father´s tread, which I try to match.
Crossing alone is worse: my careful step
goes spongy, almost walking-on-air.
And the wet air is loud; even in June
the fresh and hectic water never stops.
Last time I came to find the bridge,
a decade ago, there was none.
Must´ve been quick, I thought, to roll it up
and bundle it off. Its grace was flimsy.
Yet how much space is left, as if
a crowded tenement had been cleared.
And how my feet remember its queasy sway.