Friday, May 8, 2026

The Bridge by Laura Rodley

 

Clément Proust


The Bridge

Mike’s long fingers moved fast as fingerlings
zooming through tidal waters
just a little up and back
as though caught in waves,
landing on notes from his bagpipe
that zoomed into highland heather,
his long Talmudic beard
not catching on the bagpipes
bladder nor on the keys
his hair shorn as would be
the sheep that nibble the fields.
It was his 21st anniversary
but his wife Fiona must wait,
he’s playing with his band
adoring crowds his date
band members tapping boots,
then tall whimsical guitarist sings
the song “Leaving Indiana,”
laying down more steps
on the curved bridge
covering the Atlantic
about a couple returning to Scotland
as were so many others in that room
going back to their homeland
to thatch-covered houses,
burning peat, air difficult to breathe in,
so cold, only the tempo,
the lament of the bagpipe,
keeps you going, nourishment
for the blood just as much as supper.


Laura Rodley

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