by Bridget Auchmuty

I

You’re a fairweather walker

by choice     but still you lace boots

pull on hat gloves and jacket..

The sky uniformly grey

offers no view but sits on

Hawkduns     on Blackstone as if

no world beyond the village

lives. Dark smoke lifts from chimneys.

Little trace remains of snow

or this morning’s prettiness.

II

As far as the wooden bridge

built to last      its jarrah slats

six by eights infilled for ease

of feet and bikes when the rails

came up. Massive iron bolts

still hold it all together.

The jarrah’s patterned as if

by water. The bridge trembles

from the river underneath

or perhaps it’s from your heart.

III

Although it’s still mid winter

a thrush sings up spring hauling

the first light with threads of song,

draws hope and resurrection.

You swing along effortless

as if it were forever.

Hidden in dark soil seeds split,

green shoots stir seeking through earth

as do we all in darkness

turn our faces to the light.