Belinda's Bridge
I'm on a train to Baltimore,
my device, by insubstantive devices
tells me -
that somewhere,
around the wailing, wawling seas,
a girl has stepped back,
floated up, found the above -
by falling into her Within.
She's found her heart, and
knows it (once more) by heart.
A bridge is built, in Australia -
on linen. In Victoria.
In victory, Invictus.
The waters, the hard waters,
these waters flowed for years;
she stuck on one side,
as in a war...
Everyone is a soldier, everyone
caught on one side -
outside.
She chose sides,
like anyone in wartime.
(It's always wartime.)
She enlisted with her side,
as every soldier (whether peasant
or private or poet), as every
souldier does -
her inside, fighting
a sort, her sort, her sorts
of battles there.
Days became years,
years became endless moments,
Darkness became Blue.
She saw a red chair,
somewhere there.
She saw protest and quetch,
but stayed true with brush and sketch.
She saw tears.
She shed tears.
And she sat, brushing and brushless.
Zen and zenless. Again and a loss.
Again and a gain. Again and a zen.
She saw illusion...
and saw through it too.
She was fearless in
embrace of her fear,
her embrace of the fear
cast off, ignored, unmet by
Others.
Thousands of Others,
Thousands of days.
Few saw her fight.
They saw a girl sitting,
They saw a girl still sitting,
right there where she had been.
They saw a girl, when they did see
a girl...they saw a girl messy with paint.
She was fearless, but for her fear.
And now, a bridge
carries her over the
great, the noisy, the frothy burblings below.
And now, a bridge
carries my heart
to a land I'd forgot...
without ever knowing.
I'm on a train to Baltimore,
Track, trestle, catenary, crowds.
I can't see what I write.
My eyes are welled shut.
And my heart is well, too.
Copyright ©
Stephe Watson
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