My child

 Child on a bridge,pooh sticks cling totumbling stream, poniessnort at dusk, the lanestumble into tunnels. Owl calls from oakhigh above the house,her frozen arms outhrownfor centuries, as mancomes and goes,. Child on a bridge,afternoon is closeand evening stretchesto ensnare us in itsarms of age. Writing on a walllove lain and lost,scattered nowamongst  briars,on solitary island. You searched eachtwisted path, but Ihad disappeared, flungaway this flesh, meltedin the mist of finite tomorrow. Always,child on a bridgeleaning into streamnothing held in mindexcept movement.