Stanzas: Monthly Chapbooks November 2014: Remembrance | Page 12

The Bridge
John Collins
There was a man of his own time
a sheltered life he led
the deck of cards his author dealt
to him were sometimes read
the pain, disdain, the turnpike lane
was not his tale to tell
until the stone that held the throne
upon the bridge it fell
a man is what he makes himself
is what he makes his own
the road he walks down to the bridge
he has to walk alone
he takes his book, he tries to look
as swallows circle low
they swoop and land on weathered sand
from the bridge their shadows grow
he stops inside his final keep
grim faced his tale to tell
as darkness creeps and gently seeps
his ever fading well
the weeds that grow, the rains will flow
upon his empty life
his pockets turned, his bridges burned
this man, his brood, his wife

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