Bridges by Russell Rowland

The Swift River, taking with it
whatever it can carry, bringing nothing back—

along with my adult daughter,
I crossed dry-shod by means of a footbridge.

Bridge boards bore the weight of our passage.

I heard our quartet of feet
thump also on a lengthier span. It stretched

from Baby’s bath and bottle hours—her dad
green at both—to this traversal,
and to thoughts of a present little girl at home

with her father, the husband of my daughter.

I mean a bridge that will carry the four of us
to the indiscernible further bank,

across time’s own eponymous Swift River.



Russell Rowland has helped judge high school Poetry Out Loud competitions in New Hampshire's Lakes Region.