Sheppey Bridge.
We’re crawling, nose-to-tail, to what must be
The bridge. This place is featureless and flat,
No trees, no houses, bugger all to see
Except the bridge and there’s a lot of that.
A siren wails enough to wake the dead,
A funnel slides along, the bridge goes up,
The traffic stops. We stop. All lights are red.
A solitary heron’s slow flip-flap
From west to east and then from east to west
Stops Time. Round here that happens quite a lot.
The siren wails again, the bridge goes down,
A dozen lorries trundle to the town,
Then Holland, Istanbul and Bucharest.
It ought to be romantic but it’s not.
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