Beneath the bridge

Beneath the bridge,
A sprawl of weedy bushes
Becomes a secret den.

Crouched on hunkers,
Things pass
Unaware of your furtive eye.

You touch the loose soil,
Absentmindedly
Scooping it on to the back of your hand.

Until it trickles
Cool as water,
But sandy, between your fingers.

In the evening,
The light changes,
The traffic and the hot sounds of summer still.

You forget,
That winter will come and reveal
A hard dirty place of roots and rocks and cans.

Time proceeds slower
Than our memories care to linger
Through summer and into winter.

But one green morning,
Spring will creep back again
And touch the ground and make it good.