When I was younger than I am now
I helped to build a bridge
With two or three mud-speckled peers.

Waist high, between the banks,
I fumbled in the stream,
Directed by a budding Brunel,
And placed each handed-over branch
Across the meagre gulf.

When Brunel felt the width and length
Sufficient to his cause,
A grimy hand was offered
And I was hoisted back onto the grass,
Proud, Tired,
Assistant to The Bridge Builder.

The others crossed the chasm first,
Cautiousness then satisfaction in each stride
Our Brunel led the way, with seeming boredom
And the need to find another gulf,
Wider, deeper than this, a minow.

I stepped onto the branch,
Now slick with mud and slid
And fell back into the stream.
Wet cold gave way to warm tears
Embarressment of showing emotion to peers
Returned with scorn and thoughts of blame.

Then real pain.
The broken-bone type, the torn-muscle-type,
The pain that leads to words like dislocation.
But no grimy hand came down and tearful pleas
Were met with receding footsteps
And in that anguished isolation,
Confined by muddy banks,
I vowed
I would never trust those who built bridges.