Just a picture

The Bridge stands like a old monument,
Thousands have not passed since it was built,
But it stands in memory of all those who stand on it.
A small punishment for the amount of pleasure it gives to be there.
Take a step and it creaks, take two more and it sings.
It follows the same notes as your foot steps.
The nails tell stories, the wood bear’s silent witness.

The autumn river flows underneath,
The ice slowly looses the battle to keep the water in.
The columns of shapeless fluid gently caress the ice and rock
Taking along with them more of those who want to be free.
It peeps through the ice windows and then gushes out into a gentle stream.
It flows away to meet its dream.

The trees around are wiser than the bridge,
Many a sunrise they have seen and many they will see, each one the same but yet so different.
In autumn they stand bare, ready to put on new attire.
Each one a monument, each one with a story.
Nature toys with them but cherishes them.
And the leaves fall from the autumn trees,
Leave their pedestals to gently swing into a monotonous rhythm.
Dancing for every gust, swaying for every beat
Like a dancer to a drum beat.
And then it ends like all good things must.
It sways down and gently kisses the water and lands like a tired child on a bed.
It swims away effortlessly