An old suspension bridge which used to carry trains
across the river where its anchorages still stand,
with its iron bowery of cables so silent now,
but once shivered with the sound of horns.
No more deafening thunder of the tracks
vibrate the waves beneath.
In this pastoral scene of woods and paths
that speak of the past,
there is something here, something holy.
This bridge was an iron maiden
who fought to join two worlds together
in the best and worst of times,
carried the loot of life to far off towns.
The arms of God,
in bundled cables spun together.
hold onto the farthest shores.
There is holiness in the joining of worlds,
though we may not know how it flows.
Now this bridge lays silent, but
still speaks of God,
spanning the waters that parted lives as
tall diplomats that negotiate two world views.
A bridge that is both something old and
something new, now a trail
where people walk across the water
to find their lives on the other side.
It’s a bridge to nowhere,
but still speaks of God,
She’s in the steel beam and wire,
in the track that lay upon its back
across the countryside.
Birds sit upon the height of cables,
they see the world from above,
much as God must see this scene,
and their chirping is holy,
for God’s voice is in the their song.