This memory

The sun embraces the whole city
in coppercolored paintings of glass
when my grandfather and I cross this bridge

The roofs of the houses
looks like shimmering shields,
as if they were held
by a roman army

and the swallows circle the eveningsky
like flakes of ashes

My grandfathers hand is a land,
and holds mine like the last dinosaur
carried its last egg

It is a sentimental memory, I know,
but they tore down that bridge yesterday,
and when the bricks hit the river, they sent a
tsunami of memories through me,

and this one memory, this memory stranded
in my own hand

with the image of my grandfather as
he closed his eyes and turned his face
towards the falling sun

and whispered proud:

"This bridge, this bridge was built
by my grandfather"



Poetry by Geir Ove Kvalheim
Read 428 times
Written on 2012-05-25 at 02:59

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