Water Under The Bridge

Water Under The Bridge

The Canadian canoe submerged as we got in

too clumsily.

The cushions brought thoughtfully for comfort

were soaked

along with everything else.

Then we discovered that we were unable to coordinate

our paddling

so moving along the narrow canal in a straight line

was impossible.

Thus we made slow progress.

And then we came to the long tunnel.

The sign at the entrance was disconcerting,

forbidding entry

except with a torch.

Of course, we had no torch,

just spluttering roll ups

made in darkness

from damp tobacco,

and five loud voices.

Yes, we were five.

Four adults who should have known better

and a thirteen year old

in despair as usual

of his out of control parents.

All water under the bridge 

when we emerged 

into the light to tell

a survivor’s tale,

now a memory.

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Lynn White
I live in north Wales. I have been writing at various points in my life since I was in my teens. My work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people I has known or imagined. I am especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality.
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