AN EIGHT YEAR SLEEP

This poem was prompted by the trend of lovers documenting their love by fastening a lock to a bridge. I began to see it on a regular basis. It was obviously a fad, no one does it now I don't think. The story is totally from inside my own head.

HARDLY A RIPPLE

Pinned by an arrow through her heart until it broke,

she had pulled herself off the splintered shaft

then considered the alternatives;

to settle for the less than perfect,

to mend and make do in this little town.

She got herself an education instead,

almost accidentally traced the currents in the confluence of events

that had led her and him to stand on that bridge,

fasten a padlock to the handrail,

and each to cast their key into the sunset water,

for they knew they would never unlock their love.

Council cuts meant that the bridge went unpainted,

the allegedly rustless lock now tainted by atmosphere.

Her levering screwdriver dragged the shackle

screaming from an eight-year sleep,

then it became a weight on her palm.

She turned her wrist.

The broken mechanism rushed towards the water.

There was hardly a ripple.

I liked how the man character just gets on with it and refuses to settle for anything less than what she wants. I also liked the council failing to paint the bridge, as if that would happen in these times of cut backs...

Here's I Jah Man with a classic.

Until next time.