Image manipulated by author
With bucket of water, squeegee and rag,
Performing menial chore I abhor.
For it will always make my spirits sag,
Daily cleaning of the stately glass door.
Fully covered with finger prints galore.
Strange as it be that it has no push bar,
Makes me hate this nasty door even more.
Without a key lock makes it more bizarre.
Limitless numbers who come but can’t pass.
Is this door’s only purpose to harass?
Or clearly an obstruction made of glass,
To ensure creation of an impasse?
Now clearly understanding took an axe,
Gave the mighty wall of glass forty whacks.
Old Blackford Bridge, Walter Hall (1910)
The Bridge, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Built of steel and concrete was quite a feat.
They came from afar to see this marvel.
Designed so others could easily meet.
Reducing many miles of their travel.
Soon subtle difference became aware,
Not easily seen from opposite shore.
Upon the bridge many would stop to stare,
With looks so ugly they could start a war.
Little by little traffic did decrease,
Finally only the winds dared to cross.
Blockades now in place guarded by police,
The peace bridge is now home to grass and moss.
What is it that keeps so many apart?
Sages are yet unable to impart.