Somewhere in Madison County...

A bridge – more than just a way
across a stream. It is the call
of a goldfinch to its mate –
aspen leaves that flirt
with skittish winds. The clatter
of cartwheels...

the smell of new-mown hay
and freshly dug manure.
The dogged thud of hooves –
a maze of dusty coigns
where spiders spin their webs
and bluebirds patch their nests.

How many trysts, made
and broken here...how many
couples kissed in the shelter
of its arches to the sound
of rippling water – dripping
like sundown in their minds?

As impossible to know
as count the motes of dust
that float in shafts of sunlight
filtering through cracks
in the apple-wood trusses.

Some say the bridge is haunted,
but best to keep an open mind;
pretend I never heard the scratch
of pen on paper...the crunch
of tyres on gravel

and fragments of a song –
‘Blue Gardenia’, as it drifted
on the speedwell-scented air
to the throb of fireflies...
Or a hushed “Goodbye,”
and a woman's silent tears.