The Railway Bridge (Poetry)

Not long afterwards
they took the old bridge down,
replaced its foot-worn wooden treads
(open-backed to let long, summer grass
between to tickle legs),
erected precast concrete slabs,
bolts driven through its monster neck,
caging out the field-edged railway view —
steel-meshed for safety’s sake.

But underneath, the rails still look the same —
glint sword-bright threats,
and peering downwards I recall
the rhythmic clatter of that distant train
coming closer. A flutter on the bridge —
the woman’s raincoat blowing.
Oblivious, we played out
our own snow dramas as she died;
the protesting scream of engine brakes
applied too late.

A small, sheeted bundle gathered from the tracks,
anonymous, kept private for the eyes
of children, sledging on smooth, winter hills,
stood whispering at red offending white.

Men removed her body, cleaned despairing blood
from pink-iced rails and tidied death away.
The bridge itself removed, in time.
Another built to take its brooding place,
as if the newness might erase
the taint of tragedy.

However changed, the spot remains in shade.
And when I see those steps made soft with snow,
I listen, fearful of approaching trains,
and relive that frozen moment she let go.