We cross three bridges

We cross three bridges

We cross three bridges

brave the electric bites of nettles

choose our picnic spot

on prickly brown grass

where cows come to drink

I wiggle bare toes

in the same soft July breeze

that brushes willow leaves

from sky to dark green water.

It sounds like rain

gnarled trunks and branches

squeak and crack like thunder

We unpack our small feast,

dutifully eat cold meats

and cold, pale melon chunks.

It is the glossy red strawberries

as big as tomatoes we are greedy for.

Pinky red juice drips down our chins

wind flicks drops onto my vest top

We could fall into endless sky

fall into clouds that waft above

if it wasn’t for the constant spin.

A squadron of skylarks bomb

a lazy hawk, until it flicks

round wings and wheels off

He takes leftover bread

rolls it in sticky palms,

aims for the long, languid fish.

They meander in the shadow of cigar

shaped leaves. He watches

this season’s batch

dart in the shallows

His thoughts carefully hoarded,

I am alone.

At the top of the field

cows come back after milking

More people are killed by cows

than shark attacks I say.

We fold the blanket upon itself

cross the first bridge in silence.

At the second, I tell him

The 1916 Mattawan Creek attacks

were probably bull sharks, not great whites

Single file we cross the last bridge,

he leads and holds

the grasping bramble branches clear,

stamps down nettles.

Sticky strawberry juice glues our palms

his fingers braid mine,

we hold on.

Rose Blackthorn

c2015