Bridges

As we walk across clock hands my shadow and I are reunited, after crossing St Ives bridge. Their is a tunnel at the end of the light as the moon like a fingertip opens glass, placing the bridge against the eyes of the night, sleepers cross, some slouch heavy with dreams. Ambling through St Ives next morning pedestrians are like type writer keys as rain falls on them, I find words to resurrect the bridge sunk deep into my heart, but there is no-one left to cross.