Cuttybridge (Poetry)

The bridge stands solid, straddling the stream,
offers a well-trodden way to cross
the water flowing quick and clear and clean —
splashing through a bed grown green with moss

while slanting light throws shadows on the grey
stonework, rims its edges, picks them out,
relieves the dullness of a gloom-filled day
and lingers on the bud that waits to sprout.

With branches bare, the trees reserve their sap —
too early yet to let themselves be fooled —
the year’s too young, today’s unscheduled gap
a respite from late winter’s sombre rule.

Grim sky, wrapped in its cloak of patchy cloud,
ignores the sparkle in the swift stream’s flow,
as arches glow, look purposeful and proud,
and will the failing season to let go.