The Iron Bridge

The Iron Bridge


I am standing on a disused iron bridge
that was erected in 1902,
according to the iron plaque
bolted into a beam,
the year my mother turned one.
Imagine--a mother in her infancy,
and she was a Canadian infant at that,
one of the great infants
of the province of Ontario.

But here I am leaning
on the rusted railing
looking at the water below,
which is flat and reflective
this morning, sky-blue and streaked
with high clouds,
and the more I look at the water,
which is like a talking picture,
the more I think of 1902
when workmen in shirts and caps
riveted this iron bridge together
across a thin channel
joining two lakes
where wildflowers blow along
the shore now
and pairs of swans float
in the leafy coves.

1902--my mother was so tiny
she could have fit into one
of those oval
baskets for holding apples,
which her mother could have lined
with a soft cloth
and placed on the kitchen table
so she could keep an eye
on infant Katherine
while she scrubbed potatoes
or shelled a bag of peas,

the way I am keeping an eye
on that cormorant
who just broke the glassy surface
and is moving away from me
and the iron bridge,
swiveling his curious head,
slipping out to where the sun
rakes the water
and filters through the trees
that crowd the shore.

And now he dives,
disappears below the surface,
and while I wait for him to pop up,
I picture him flying underwater
with his strange wings,

as I picture you, my tiny mother,
who disappeared last year,
flying somewhere with your strange wings,
your wide eyes, and your heavy wet dress,
kicking deeper down into a lake
with no end or name,
some boundless province of water.

Billy Collins

Posted over on Poemhunter