ON WINCHCOMBE BRIDGE

On Winchcombe bridge we rested
Watching the coal-fat engines steaming below
And I asked why nothing ever happened between us.

Distractedly she killed a red spider.
You saw it was an accident?
I didn’t mean to kill that spider.

Sure it was an accident,
But why don’t I float your boat?
A snake of steam dissipating in hills.
(Her Lancelot designs software in San Diego.)

Because, she said, aren’t there a lot of spiders?
(He has some sneaky little gene I don’t possess.)
Because I hate to hurt you
But I don’t want sex with you.

That’s OK, I just wondered.

So it’s for nothing –
This walking together down sunny rose tunnels
With low words of poesy drifting and dreaming,
Carousing by the carousel
And the mad starry sky Vincent painted just for us.

(A technician in a dry, digital world owns the Helix Code
Which overrides any Sonnet or Ode,
Unlocks the reproduction Temple Divine
Before all that is crafted, elegant or fine.)

Later (and she in her silken bed)
The Railway Stories to her I read.

The Fat Controller is right, she supposed,
To chastise the arrogant engines.
They need to learn the value of hard work.
But a shame, I said, to lock them away for three days.
(A year of courtship dissipates like steam in the hills –
A man in the States has the key to the gates.)

A shame to lock away a fine, Brass Embossed
Shiny Green Engine, I said.

A shame to have engines at all.
I took my rejected genes from her
And wished our souls were Shooting Stars

And that no Earthly Code or Helix
Determined our flight through the crystal night.