B) Sabrina Bridge

Sabrina Bridge

I had cosy-jumper jigsaw dreams of you and I meeting
half-way. I would lean on the grey rail at the centre of
the web, listening to the seashore grumble of the ebbing

traffic and wait for the tell-tale tremors, growing like a
swell through the cables, breaking across my ankles; and
there you would be, smiling the collapsed telescope smile

of distant greeting, then expanding it like an accordion as
we prepare to squeeze hello, dizzy from the moths in our
stomaches. Ideally it would be sunset, the evening winding

down ahead of us, but dawn would have been as good if
breakfast was on the menu. Often I have stood on the apex of
that great, swaying dinosaur carcass, leaning out over the

beaten tin of the Severn, chest swimming with content at the
incandescent river boats, imagining the glug of kettles and clash
of dinner plates from behind the pink windows. We never met

there did we? So few of our great schemes saw daylight.
The sensation is eloquent, exquisitely figurative. The uncertain,
back-and-forth, subliminal seasickness of Sabrina Bridge.