Strange Stillness
A reflective canal-side poem exploring grief, memory and quiet solitude, where a summer evening by Bridge 87 stirs thoughts of loss and the fragile pull of still waters.
At Bridge 87
The hottest night of the year,
I’m sat alone, drinking a beer.
A couple walked past,
sharing a large shopping bag.
It was so dark,
I hardly saw their faces.
I turned to the moss,
shimmering on the black canal.
I thought of Jeff —
another brother, dropped in.
I trilled my lips.
A physical release of tension
like a stifled sob,
a tremor on the brink of speech.
The body answers
what words cannot…
Time to walk home before
the meteor shower
I probably won’t see,
beside the calm, moss-filled water
that’s drawing me in.
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