The Other Side of the Bridge

I have reached the other side of the bridge but I don't move from there. I am too lazy to penetrate up into the heartland, through the country, to home.

The Bridge as it's end is made of wooden slats. An Indiana Jones rope bridge. A checkpoint the traveller has to pass.

And on this precarious bridge I make my home. Bed down with my sleeping-bag. I and the lads. With me I have two boys, brothers of departed friends.

One I call "the Wee Man". He is about ten. Strong and snivel-nosed. Goes about bare-torsoed and wild-haired. The other is a mere babe. And his first words were curses. I constantly have to look out for him. Once when brushing a fly from his nose he almost toppled from the bridge. I had to grasp his plump little body.

(Sometimes I think, that when the campfire is extinguished for the night and the lads are asleep, I'll steal off up into the mainland and make for home.)

When they send the news media out to the bridge I call the lads "my brothers". They show us on the 6:30 news in grey footage.

The announcer says the state has failed us. But we are proud. We strap ourselves to the top of the bridge and shout. We wave our arms in defiance.

Roaring with pride on the bridge.