Over

The bridge is redundant,
left to permanently soar
over the disused railway line.
You may go across or over,
though if you choose the former
there is no train to hit you.
Underneath are pensioners
throwing sticks for eager dogs,
toddlers learning to ride their tricycles.
A woman sits with her legs apart – the folds
of her sari fall sheer from her groin.
A couple have taken themselves
out of the house to broach the matter
that won't be solved indoors –
their postures lock in an iron grid.
And nobody takes the first step. Nobody
chooses up and further without
a reason. To do so would be folly.
The tall grasses undulate
as if in deep discussion; twisted branches
irritate the railings. I am eye level
with crows that will remember my face.

(First published in Isacoustic, 10 April 2018.)