Lop-sided, lame the old bridge at Newtown
limped from salt marsh to hay-meadow;
railway sleeper and chicken wire causeway
licked and lapped by each high tide;
natural as egret's flight, curlew's cry.
Now orange varnish glitters from chunky
wooden posts, scars the marsh; blights the skyline.
I hear a cuckoo call from the copse;
late primroses watch the sun; a small field
shelters a flock of black sheep and their lambs.
You call from Australia, make me laugh
remind me why bridges are repaired.
Kept strong to carry home flocks of black sheep
stretch long to reach every wayward cuckoo.