The North End of the Bridge

I used to fancy myself a poet, but it seemed I could only write when I was really depressed. And so, of course, all of my poems were dark and depressing. I just came across this poem that I wrote several years ago, apparently in a slightly lighter moment. Thought I'd share: 

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The North End of the Bridge

At the North end of the bridge
my steps ease their pace until
I find myself standing at the parapet,
looking down into the almost still waters that
encircle slender reeds of cattails.

The water here is clear and peaceful,
finding its renewal through the gentle
undercurrent from the flow of the river.
It calls to me to take the path that leads to
its gently sloping shore, to sit shoeless on a ledge
and let my feet dangle into its cool embrace.

I consider the notion dreamily,
already beginning to feel the
comforting respite of such a trivial detour.
Almost giving sway to the unspoken invitation,
I pause a moment longer than intended.

A splash at the opposite shore
pulls me back from my reverie and
my gaze turns southward
to the far end of the bridge.

There stands a congregation of all my
seemingly urgent obligations champing  at the shore,
their anger roiling the waters into whirlpools.
Mud stirred loose of the rocks below
leaves the water a murky brown,
unable to reflect anything
but itself.

Now I remember where I was headed,
how I came to stand at the bridge in the first place.
My stomach churns in misplaced empathy to the
south shore and its turbulence.

I set feet in motion again to the
necessary destination,
the responsible choice,
the inevitable path I must take if
I want to see my desires fulfilled.

And so, 
under the north end of the bridge, I find myself
seated on a warm flat stone with
gentle waters lapping at my ankles.

Pretentious obligations can wait.
I've discovered my priorities.

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