Ken's Poetry

Bridges

Another funeral, another bridge burnt,
and yet,
for me another span
stretching that unfinished path
across the river.

Over there, family and friends
gathered in the shade
welcome another
and reminisce
down deep layers of past
far beyond my remembrances;
ancestral fingers
reaching centuries,
mocking time.

From where I stand
their names are hard to find.
A skeletal glimpse
in old ledgers,
indelible references
to birth and death,
liaisons branching into
archives thick with dust.

The next pier is being built
inexorably;
I cannot know how long
before the job is done.