Five Bridges' Road
Five Bridges' Road is nothing.
Just a stretch of road
that no one much knows about,
only those that use it — want it --
then only to cross the same creek
five times.
A useless bit of nothing to forget.
The land around is black and low --
good but the floods must make the life bitter.
The ground is low, so
the bridges rise --
like wooden ships angling through the primordial forest.
Grey — silent — spirits with only the wind
and the sway to grind concrete, steel, wood, and tin
into one.
They must be a reminder
of flood that
either will be,
or is,
but always there.
Floating above their serfs,
grey queens — protected from the
gnashing at their feet.
The town's the other way,
on the North.
The South has just the neighbor.
Not much can get between --
just some conversation
Farm equipment is too wide — too heavy.
Each might borrow a wagon or a bag of feed,
otherwise they have to go around.
The dirt road swings back and forth
like a cracked rope rising
to each bridge in expectation.
Then the next - the same --
crash of tin, wood, and steel.
Wood and tin
Tin and wood
Wood and tin
and down. The road, and again
the same — a new bridge.
These are something different
from the road, the creek, the trees, the flood, the land.
A contradiction to the quiet --
Survival of steel.
Survival of memory.
The need to remember something nearly worthless --
that twists and turns a
dark dirt country road to cross
something no one cares to cross.
Night brings all that is left,
a crack of light
diffused into the field
out of reach.
The thunder of rubber, tin, & wood
then down
then up
five times --
what else is left us?
They are there.
East Lansing
1984
Normal Series
©1984 Five Bridges’ Road — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
Just a stretch of road
that no one much knows about,
only those that use it — want it --
then only to cross the same creek
five times.
A useless bit of nothing to forget.
The land around is black and low --
good but the floods must make the life bitter.
The ground is low, so
the bridges rise --
like wooden ships angling through the primordial forest.
Grey — silent — spirits with only the wind
and the sway to grind concrete, steel, wood, and tin
into one.
They must be a reminder
of flood that
either will be,
or is,
but always there.
Floating above their serfs,
grey queens — protected from the
gnashing at their feet.
The town's the other way,
on the North.
The South has just the neighbor.
Not much can get between --
just some conversation
Farm equipment is too wide — too heavy.
Each might borrow a wagon or a bag of feed,
otherwise they have to go around.
The dirt road swings back and forth
like a cracked rope rising
to each bridge in expectation.
Then the next - the same --
crash of tin, wood, and steel.
Wood and tin
Tin and wood
Wood and tin
and down. The road, and again
the same — a new bridge.
These are something different
from the road, the creek, the trees, the flood, the land.
A contradiction to the quiet --
Survival of steel.
Survival of memory.
The need to remember something nearly worthless --
that twists and turns a
dark dirt country road to cross
something no one cares to cross.
Night brings all that is left,
a crack of light
diffused into the field
out of reach.
The thunder of rubber, tin, & wood
then down
then up
five times --
what else is left us?
They are there.
East Lansing
1984
Normal Series
©1984 Five Bridges’ Road — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.