An Old Man on a Wooden Bridge
An old man sat on an old wooden bridge amid the forest deep
Beneath ran a hidden mossy creek, and beyond,
The trees were lovely, dark and green, and the grassy path lay virgin.
Fish scuttled and dived head high, and the cool black water swirled.
The old man with shaking hands and legs trembled
Sat there for hours, and admired the awful scene.
Twilight and the tinged cloudlets
Sailed across the sea blue sky,
And a flock of white herons gleamed, and lazily went by.
He looked each side, and he was gay,
The trees were tall and dark, the leaves resplendent
The moon was not up yet, nor the owls screeched.
Scented air he breathed and his eyes poor surveyed
The bushy banks and thickets thick and ferns furled,
The climbers twirled the tall trees, and unendingly the forest whirred.
No neighbours, no friends,
No children, all abroad and settled well.
He took a deep breath, and moaned.
Every evening, thus, he came, and sat on the old wooden bridge,
Heard the birds carol and the creek’s dying reel,
And wistfully surveyed the awful scene.