Foot-Bridges
 
Ruffey Park has four foot-bridges
offering multiple experiences -

try first the large bridge southwest
between wetland (with purple 

swamp-hens) and lake proper:
spaciously the decking widens

as for a wide-angled bay window.
Take a breather, leaning a while,

elbows on the timber rail,
held by the long level view

to the north, and, on its higher
elevation, the green-turfed bank 

(raised when the old orchardists' creek  
was dammed and tamed into a lake).

This is great for contemplating
paddling water-birds' slow wakes

widening, intersecting, weakening,
and the lake-wide ruffle effects 

of passing breezes, minor squalls.
Time your visit right, you'll get 

a moon above benignly steady,
a lake-moon tremulous below.

Step along now to where rock-lined
Ruffey Creek at the south-east

pauses at the concrete weir, 
flows under this second bridge

and widens as lake with water-reeds.
The rocks nearby on the left protruding

from grass - on warm summer mornings
they're graced by a snake or two (tigers,

by the looks) dispelling chill 
from their coils, alert maybe

for spring's ducklings
or frogs, most seasons.

If it's spring, count
the ducklings. Tomorrow

they may be fewer. This bridge 
(like the others) is where dogs

converge from four directions,
territory contestable,

needing diplomacy
and firmly gripped leash.

After a cloudburst the creek
in spate is best viewed here.

Upstream the third bridge
is the one most fancied for

the venerable sport
of 'pooh-sticks': twigs

dropped from the eastern rail
take their time reaching

downstream to the west,
occasioning naive pleasure.

The fourth bridge, in disrepair,
lacks distinction. A friend 

has mentioned she once saw from it
a native rat on a rock stationed  

by the meagre creeklet trickle.
An acquaintance tells me his dog 

off-leash proudly caught a rat down there,
ignoring it's protected by law.

This bridge crosses an unnamed
tributary of Ruffey Creek

emerging at the park edge
from a huge pipe labelled

Danger: Sudden Flood -
Bad Air - May Cause Death.

This stormwater drain is bridged
by my very own home street,

which I hadn't meant to mention.
None of the bridges would suit

Kyoto or Giverny, but they do us.
They keep us intimate with the lake.

Otherwise we'd trudge the hard
hilltop circuit, head in air -

all panorama and perspective,
horizons of parkside houses,

hazy hints of hinterland hills -
running out of puff, footsore.

On these bridges you feel
both grounded and uplifted.
 
They rest all night silent
till we tramp in next day chatting

amongst ourselves about flora
and fauna, sky and water,

not their supporting steadiness,
strong planks and water under.

                     Max Richards 
 
    
 


 

 
 

 
 
 





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