Tawny Bridge
Hell mithered an itch that day,
an automated path down to the river
where I found the bridge, a sulky spot
to sit and slink my limbs; a dripping prose
of adolescence that would never disappear.
By the grit of this – seeing my sore gluttony,
unconcerned by the fish below -
a stranger was spurred to share my seat,
pouting, curled up in concentration – a ginger tom.
Being so bold with not knowing
my tears to be an exhibition, his unreal orange fur
touched me, and I him.
“My dear,” He purred, offering me his chin,
“this river holds an eternity
that is rather pointless, see how thin you become,
moving over the rocks.”
I stared back out to the moss flank of nothing,
I need this part of me - stirred in the impossible
kiss of retrospection, I ebb and flow, paramount
to devastation.
The trees slurred, my eyes and throat thick with them –
tawny broken bones.
“What a nonsense you are,” He laughed,
“What nonsense”
He bowed down and padded the moving water,
“This is inconsistent –
you fall for such fickle beings,
no wonder you swing yourself from this ledge
like a dumb wait.”
He licked his paw, rubbing dew over his face –
sweet and irreproachable.
I do not have your charms, I said
and even the trees turned away,
shamed by their pity.
M.C. Newberry
Sat 31st Mar 2012 10:49
Clearly, my dictionary is a pale shadow of that used by JAS! Thanks for the very welcome explanation. On the subject of regional words, my favourite, as a Devon-born Englishman, is "dimpsey" - meaning dusk.