Tomnahurich Bridge
- Sheengh Pugh (U.K.)
Well into May, the canalside trees
all pink froth, but cloud louring,
full of hail. Slivers of ice
on the towpath. A couple mooring
at the pontoon; he hauls on the bow
and thinks this used to be less tiring.
He brushes a hand across his brow,
then upward, as if to flick back
unruly hair: no problem now.
She holds the stern rope, taking in slack
while he makes fast. Her shoulders droop.
She's eyeing him: an uncertain look,
as if something has come to a stop
in the way she thinks about him,
or herself, or both. They tie up,
as they have done many a time;
you can see they were once good
at this. The cold's getting to them:
they climb aboard for coats. Though the cloud
darkens, they set off walking, shoulders
squared, arm in arm. Overhead
the wind's rising: at first it just stirs
the leaves, then a sudden dense fall;
you'd think it was snow, but the air
is pink, faintly scented, petals
heaping on the path; there'll be nothing
but bare branches left. They feel
their careful way, not wanting
to slip on the papery scraps,
leaving the boat behind, heading
for a nice cup of tea, perhaps.