Saturday, February 21, 2015

Valley Bridge at Twilight

Valley Bridge at Twilight

Fishing under Valley Bridge, where I’ll take my son today,
beneath old wooden structure, in shadows our rods will prey.

The dirt road down the canyon, was steep and full of turns,
but that didn’t stop our excitement, or burden thoughts of return.

Our ancient village wonder, monolithic bridge with sturdy frame,
wide arches on either end of it, and Roman middle was its claim.

The aqueduct of Segovia, its brilliance before us stood,
with seventy-two small arches, double stacked and made of wood.

The early morning sun, was just rising over the valley,
it gave the bridge its shadow, with glowing light ray finale.

Whistle sounds a-distant, eerie wind to raise my attention,
turning to my boy, “there’s a story I neglected to mention”.

We sat down near the river, to watch the oncoming train,
our bridge just in the distance, the wood already a strain.

I began to tell the tale, that my father told me before,
passed down to each generation, since our family owned the store.

It began with bridge construction, when horse and buggy ruled the day,
the railroad was being connected, to all the townships without delay.

The owners were in a hurry, seems progress wouldn’t be stopped,
the bridge was to be completed, so they worked around the clock.

The massive engine arrived early, its size did widen eyes,
packed in the cars that followed, a large bank vault, and town supplies.

The railway owner emerged livid, out from his special caboose,
“What’s the delay now conductor?” he moaned like a bullish moose.

“The bridge is not completed, we’ll have to wait a little while”,
spit the tobacco subordinate, to the boss man filled with guile.

“This train’s to move by sundown, it’s all the time you’ve got”,
the heritor slammed his door shut, horses spooked by anger wrought.

The bridge crew were almost finished, when sun set that afternoon,
but the iron track wasn’t ready, as the train left way too soon.

The town gathered at the station, waving flags and cheering on,
then in a jolting instant, the train pulled out and was gone.

The valley drop gave accelerated speed, the workers never saw it coming,
when brakes engaged like screeching nails, the thunder heard was numbing. 

A year had passed in village mourning, bridge completed months before,
seventy two people had died that evening, more than in the great war.

Your great grand dad was there that day, just opened the family store,
he’d saved his money from work camps, and laboured with sledge no more.

It is said that when the sun sets, and angel rays touch the bridge,
you can see their silhouette's and shadows, just there above the ridge.

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