A Tough, Old Bridge
The railway bridge at edge of my hometown
no longer hears an engine’s chugging hiss,
no longer shakes with jar of clacking wheels.
Old timers spin tall tales of how they miss
the whistle blaring near the mountain bend.
Though trains no longer cross the Little red,
the bridge has earned the honor to remain–
iron-clad above the restless river’s bed.
The swimming hole beneath the overpass
attracts both old and young from off the ridge.
The local preachers hold baptisms there
in sight of that old tough and rustic bridge.
© 2015 Freeda Baker Nichols