High in blue mountains, a bridge
built by strong hands, weighs across the gorge.
Lovers lean on its steel railings, gossiping and laughing,
dropping wish after wish
to the river, waiting far below,
who catches them in his slow hands,
and carries them in bottles of blue and green and gold
to the far sea, where they ride cresting waves
in schools of clinking laughter before
sinking fathoms deep.
Neither awake nor asleep,
they lay cold among the kraken
until warmer currents tug them to shore
and cast them against black rocks
that have waited for this breaking.
Dashed, they tumble, tide
over tide, in the fine roughness of time
until they are smooth palms.
A storm that broke boats and cottages
abandons them, glowing like dusk,
in the white sands south of the timbered dock.
Lovers, as new as the last wave,
hand off these lost and founds
to a beachcomber with crinkled blue
and frizzy grey, who strings them like music
into the bauble of blue and green and gold
clinking on the wrist of the barefoot child, I see
dancing down the beach,
in the sunset’s fading.