The mossy bridge halfway down
the street playing home to my family
has been demolished. It was
too dangerous, too old, too unreliable
to sit under Reebok Classics
and Raleigh bike wheels.
How will dens made from fallen
branches and stolen tarpaulin
give a roof to lungs too scared
to try smoking cigarettes or
stockpile damp pages of lost porn
magazines? The banks are overgrown.
The trolls have left the stream.
Skateboards must stop
dreaming they can roll on grass.
Will the trees miss being climbed?
Will the twigs dream of being swords,
strong enough to fight all afternoon,
young enough to bounce back
when snapped in two?

© Carl Burkitt 2023