When burning bridges (so they say!) caution
should be exercised lest finding ways back
proves impossible – in disproportion –
compared to all the short-cuts on the track.
But bridges I have crossed along the way
were not one length or width or even type.
For most were strips of driftwood in decay
with others made of rope or just a pipe.
So now I light this fuse and blow them all
to smithereens in flames of fiery red.
No turning back on this last curtain call;
old concepts of a bridge, for me, are dead.
I hurl myself into this twilight zone.
(For every bridge is just a stepping-stone).
By “stepping-stone”, I mean it forms a link
that’s merely one of many on the course
(although each one pretends it is the source
from which exclusively one has to drink).
In truth, all bridges by the land between
are joined before they ever have been crossed.
So follow bridges; you will not get lost!
(Just pause to burn each one on which you’ve been).
But you may say: “How can one follow you
if all your bridges you have wholly burned?”
Then I reply: “My friend you’ll soon have learned
to build your own. With mine in flames, yours grew”.
We are not here to forge another’s track;
and bridges burned ensure we won’t go back.
© Alan Morrison, 2019