The Second Bridge by Robert Demaree

The satellite had shown a second bridge
Farther up Perry Brook,
A place my grandson might enjoy next June.
I climb to snap a picture and,
Descending, make a wrong turn
And then another, down the wrong creek bed,
Pungent mire on my shoes,
Small dead trees toppling at my touch,
Decay and renewal hidden in the forest.

In time male pride gives way to sense:
I am not where I thought I was,
In woods I should have known.
I dial my wife,
Then 911, my first such call
But surely not the last:
74-year-old guy, I tell them,
Wandered off the trail.
A granite boulder is my base,
A place to sit and wait,
Shelter for the night perhaps,
Workspace where I lay out my camera,
Cell phone, dark glasses
As light fades,
And the steady woodland chorus
Settles in,
Known but not by name.
If there are others here,
I do not encroach upon their space,
Or they on mine.

In my mind I compose notes of thanks
To different agencies,
For it did not occur to me
They might not come,
That I might not survive this night,
Or see again my wife,
Our girls, their kids.
I listen for the search dogs,
Watch for lights on the ATV
Down the old logging road.
It did not cross my mind
That I could die this night,
But it did come to me,
As it had not before,
That one day I would.
I have my picture of the second bridge,
Which Philip may or may not ever see.



Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in June 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club, and have appeared in over 150 periodicals. A retired educator, he resides in Wolfeboro, N.H. and Burlington, N.C.