Spent his life hunched over, carvingsymbols with a bleeding hand.Every night the same dream – an open skyand a doorway with no key. Boorishangels challenged him,crossed wings with bristling featherssharp as paring knives. Mirrorsmade of polished slate, bewilderedfaces floating out of gray pools deepas the eyes of wolves.Every morning he would meltback into light and noise.He would cross the bridge and waitfor lights to change, watch river’ssurge and feel the undertow pull his shadowcloser to stubble fields burnt beyond a line of trees.
Image: The Devil’s Bridge, St. Gothard, William Turner