Poetry of Place -Upon Jennings Bridge

One of my poetry projects has been to create an anthology of poems related to my childhood years growing up in a small, semi rural town, Monbulk, 43 kilometres east of Melbourne. Monbulk was originally known as Monbolok or Monbolac - a local Wurrundjeri aboriginal word meaning 'hiding place in the hill.'  

It was a place with abundant temperate forests as well as a strong farming community specializing in produce, orchards, plant nurseries, tulip farms and berry farms. So my poems are about place and related to the adventures and experiences that so informed  my formative years.

The two poems I am sharing come from a period when I was about 12 years old and spent an abundance of time exploring the forest at the base of the valley, below our house. They focus upon perspectives from a small bridge. 

The forest presented something of a wonderland for a curious child, providing endless opportunities to walk, run and ride my bike along the bushland tracks running beside the creek, as it meandered through the forest. I frequently went fishing, either alone, or with friends and learned to appreciate the beauty of this marvellous natural space. I still visit from time to time reveling in the solitude and the memories being in this place evokes.

Upon Jennings’ Bridge No. 1

The creek flows by

beneath me.

My spirit lifts

with exultation.

My lungs fill.

The flow,

flat and smooth,

whispers as it passes

under the bridge.

A life-force

snaking its way 

along the forest floor.

Less brown with distance

More stilled too.

This quiet place where

native blackfish

have revealed themselves to me.

Alan j Wright

 

Upon Jennings’ Bridge No. 2

I stand upon the bridge rail

where the road to Emerald curves

and narrows.

Below the Sassafras Creek flows on 

shallow and wide.

I am alone,

still and alert,

watching intently

for changes in the water.

Watching for signs of life

below the surface.

Ripples rise and fall

but the focus of my watchful waiting

fails to appear

-a no show,

-save for a single, fluttering leaf

descending from the forest canopy,

settling gently upon the water

and being immediately swept away,

by the ceaseless current.

Alan j Wright

It's Poetry Friday and our kindly host is Linda Mitchell . Linda has set up  a clunker exchange. If you're not sure what this entails, you so need to visit her site...