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From: "Love T.K.O."
Bridge
There is no rash of sparks
let loose upon the railway lines,
just a curve of light
where the sun strikes at the perfect height
to mark the still valley
with an arc of dazzling track.
The narrow canal displays
the same effect.
Early evening. This tow-path,
the railway, this sandstone bridge
are the show tonight.
We could be leaning on this parapet
or on the fringe of a stage,
the sun a spotlight
picking out the chrome scratch-plate
of a telecaster
strung round the neck
of some thin-necked pop kid
bored with college or the summer
after sixth-form
and ready to go to war
with his own sensibility.
Not an hour ago,
he was charging up the house-end
and tinkering with his bike.
We may leave this place
with every chance we take
but nothing could match this - belonging,
choosing to belong.
We cross the bridge to the bus turn-round
and make our way to town.
We tell ourselves homes important. And it is.
But with our feet upon the seats
we need to see what else there is.
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