So Much Depends
‘With marvellous smoothness and ease, and silent as the stars, the roadway parted twain, in the presence of thousands of admiring spectators. The highway over the river went asunder’
– Mr James Clephan on the opening of the Swing Bridge, 17 July 1876
And though I have seen you
so many times before,
today you are as striking
as William Carlos Williams’
simple observation.
Swing Bridge, red
and white bridge,
so much did
once depend
on you.
History does not tell
of a time
before a bridge.
Swing Bridge,
does the memory
of wood and stone ring
in your cast iron girders?
To fire, all wood
is kindling.
To a river, a stone
is moveable. Steel alone
endures. But neither heat
nor time destroyed
your predecessor.
It was the desire
for you. The dream
of a bridge
that could not only cross
the river,
but open it.
Today, there is no one
manning your cupola.
I alone am at your centre.
The river below
is impossibly bright.
Cormorants spread
their wings,
weight the jetty
like feathered
anvils.
On my way here,
a plaque above
a blue wheelie bin
told me that there,
the Chapel of St. Thomas
stood until 1830
when it was demolished
for road widening.
If even the sacred
is negotiable,
Swing Bridge,
what will keep
your hydraulics slippery
now that the staithes
lie in waste,
the days of big ships
are done?
Obsolescence waits
on the far shore,
waving its welcome.
To hear
the sleek hiss
of your engine,
I would set you off
like a top –
holding fast
to your railings,
my hair a whip.
We would spin
like any of the planets.
Swing Bridge,
you are not ready
to join the ranks of rust,
Thomas or any
of the saints.
Let me ride you
like the metal bronco
of eternity.
Together
we will swing.
Kris Johnson is from the foothills outside of Seattle, but has lived in the UK for the past decade. Her work appears in journals and anthologies including Hallelujah for 50ft Women (Bloodaxe), Ambit, The Irish Literary Review, Poetry London and The Rialto. She holds a PhD from Newcastle University.