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From a Bridge
Not far
from the Delta Tavern’s
tin roof –
kids diving
downstream from a bridge
off banks of coarse-grained river sand.
Their bodies
like pegs upside down
twisting into that green oblivion
the wide bend of its midsummer’s coolness.
On my table are books
a Waikato town
summer paddocks
a wide river.
But it is a bridge
that I must try to remember.
They
surface beneath it –
their hair
lacquered with light.
My childhood
held between their teeth
like a stick
that they throw to each other.
© Bob Orr
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