It’s been two months since we came to live in our house between two bridges. In the first few days, I wondered how the change of location would affect my writing; would I become so instantly inspired by the astonishing aspect we have here that I began to reel off story after story of an impressively high standard?
But I have felt inspired. Inspired by the views of course; how could I not be? And inspired by the bridges themselves:
They carry hopes and dreams across the water.
They transport lovers to romantic trysts and loners who roam alone.
The optimistic who can’t help but smile; the pessimistic who stare out for miles.
On them travel workers to work and shirkers who shirk
Expectant couples fresh from a pram emporium; mourners returning from the crematorium.
Trains full of cement and trucks with parcels we’ve sent.
Horses and hearses and tractors and trailers and brand new beginnings; the famous; the failures.
North bound. South bound.
On two wheels or four.
By bike, by train…
They fly; they soar.
Across the river. Away. And away. And away.
I don’t quite know what happened there; I seem to have come over all Betjeman-like. It must be the bridges because I never, ever just sit down and write verse. This was supposed to be a blog post written in prose; and now look.
I’ll leave it in. It isn’t poetry of distinction. It may not be poetry at all. But reading it back, I think it makes me smile. It might do the same for you.
And it does illustrate my point that living between the bridges gives a very real impression of the world moving. Even in bed with the curtains drawn, I’m aware of trains and vehicles crossing one way or the other. It is an outward looking place. A place which transports you. It is quite literally a place built for transportation.
Even the house we now live in was once used by the ferry operators; in the days before rail or road travel.
And then there’s the traffic passing under the bridges out to sea. Oil tankers, tugs; perhaps the occasional cruise ship. The sense of motion doesn’t go away. And of course, the water itself is in constant flow. Or ebb.
It is ultimately an incredibly hopeful place. It engenders a feeling of optimism, and although I haven’t produced much in the way of writing, (I haven’t had much spare time: moving home steals any you might have had), I do feel optimistic about the few pieces I have produced since arriving here. I’ve written some very different flash fiction pieces for competition and have returned at long last to my main Work in Progress. I also have a better idea of what’s been missing in it; its major deficiency, if you like.
It might not be the change of location, (it could simply be the change of season) but I’ve a suspicion that being here will only be good for my writing. The outlook from my place between two bridges is looking good. For writing and everything else.
© flyingscribbler 2013