A swerving ribbon of tarmac

leads down to your humped back

that stretches over a river

hidden by the spring flood of mud-brown

water spilled by broken banks.

The river’s banks host summer picnickers

each side of your ancient arch,

children paddle in the upstream shallows,

and skim flat stones beneath you

that bounce out the other side.

Nearby cows graze undisturbed

while others lap at a stony shore.

In the autumnal after-storm sun

your white railings gleam.

Visitors return, once again standing on your back

watching the fast flowing river journey

under your aged stonework, heading 

towards the unseen mouth of the Axe.

Little ones with mittened hands play Pooh sticks,

drop well chosen twigs between your white bars,

dash to the other side

push their wintered faces

against rust stained railings; they cheer

when their sticks reappear

from beneath your arch and float

peacefully away.