ON THE BRIDGE

 

Railway and roadway over the waters.

Here, way forward and way back,
the perpetuity of passing.

Here, where I have been gazing at life and waves,

at their intent in their frames.
Familiarity of the unfathomable.

Scrutinizing a picture whose rims

remind of a longing

or long for reminding

of a whole I am not

given to know.

The train slides on.

Crisp, low waters at this side now

while the sky seems to prepare a snowstorm

with its pregnant, steely grey.

Now the train stops

in the middle, the eternal middle way,

and is buffeted by currents, life’s sides,

by the wind’s always so present and invisible ways,

on my left a cormorant is skimming the water crests

and on my right I sense the severity of a gull’s gaze,

space is the same while being infinite and precise.

I gaze at the jagged lines of the mountains on the horizon,

-I have always been on a crossing, on life’s waves.

Yes, I am saying nothing new but I say it.
I am alone with my sense of a vast mute lore
and nobody to bore.

No difference between the wind’s currents
and those of my heart and mind,
everything on this waving line.

 

 

Gliding on thoughts that are waters.

Waters and thoughts.

And in a moment among the moments,
in their brimming, busy, buzzing infinity,

with a light push, life’s nod, or a god's,

the train at last moves on.
And the low waves beckon
towards brambles and sandbars.
Shapes like monologues
that catch and forget stars.