糖心Vlog

O Southwark Bridge

by Cecilia Knapp

I have heard you called forgotten
I鈥檝e heard you called unsung
but doesn鈥檛 your gentle green
sing with the powdery dawn?
Doesn鈥檛 a pink sky blush deeper
when it sees you?
Don鈥檛 you seem to smudge
into a blue day?
Your gold parapets
interrupting the grey clouds
that roll above this town
like a ploughed field.
And isn鈥檛 each iron arch,
with its wide splayed ribs,
a bolted smile that manages
to pull some colour
from the brown rush
of water below you?

And when the day slumps
into night, Southwark Bridge,
don鈥檛 you look gorgeous
in your own quiet way?
Don鈥檛 your lampposts cast out
three points of light
into the murky city sky?

I get you Southwark bridge.
We all get given what we鈥檝e got.
We鈥檝e all got a little bit of rust.
We鈥檝e all got bigger dogs than us
off to our west with their accolades.
Let them do their thing, Southwark bridge.
Keep on keeping on, babe.
Haven鈥檛 you done your job
for more than 100 years,
suspending us between north and south
in hovering liminal space?

I鈥檝e sat in your cool alcoves,
I鈥檝e pressed a palm
to the grain of your stone
and watched the churning of a day.
I鈥檝e peeped through
your round granite windows
and seen the city framed, condensed
in a perfect circle.

It鈥檚 quiet here, Southwark bridge.
No mass of bodies, no pulsing crowds,
just Londoners cutting the quickest route.
How many new and nervous couples
have met here at your soft apex?
Have sent a text just before
Meet u on Southwark bridge?
That mid-point between them.
Imagine, Southwark bridge, how many times
you鈥檝e been the background to a beginning,
carried them over what once separated them
as they smiled at each other, tightly,
and covered their teeth
or fidgeted with their sleeve
and tentatively suggested a drink
hoping it would span across hours.

There鈥檚 love here, Southwark bridge,
of course there is.

But, tell me, what do you make of how
the world feels crueller by the day?
A belt buckle tightening.
Or how it鈥檚 heating like a giant pot.
Look up, Southwark bridge, look up
at the planes streaking vapour
overhead in chalky trails.
And all around, the air thickening with fumes.
There鈥檚 hope, right, Southwark bridge?
Tell me there鈥檚 another 100 years.

I shouldn鈥檛 have favourites,
I know, Southwark Bridge.
But I can鈥檛 seem to forget
the nights I walked across your back.
Oh Southy B, can I call you that?
We鈥檙e friends, now right?
My limbs were sore with dancing
and not another soul in sight
and I felt battered by the force
of my own dumb luck鈥�
that I somehow made it here
to this city
crossing water in the dark
on the way to my safe home.
And don鈥檛 we all just want that,
Southwark bridge?
I think that would be enough for most of us.