Bridges

The ocean of life creates its own bridges. I wish I’d known you when crossing the bridge between ten and twelve, but definitely by the time I crossed to seventeen. At ten; well at ten I was going to be a soccer player scoring for England on the sacred Wembley turf and not against the bushes on my street every Saturday morning. I knew where I was going at twelve: by twelve I knew the difference between a carnival and a carnivore, but by seventeen, well then I understood the deeper mysteries; why the carnation would never convey what the rose offered. I wish I’d loved you at seventeen, so sure and certain of my world, so courageous, so in touch with life. I’ve been pushing my way against the chill, fighting my way along the shoreline and against the sea spray. Crossing bridges and entering times when chunks of life were as rough as Mendocino rock. Times when friends believed I was nothing more than a dreamer, but I knew you were standing up there, ahead, your frame covered in mist, waiting for me. I’m sorry I never found you when I was young, on the bridge between ten and twelve; the pirate, or the schoolboy scoring for his country. I guess those were the best times. No one wanted to own me then, my work all before me, all a boy’s dreams intact. Bridges. I’ve crossed them. Hello.