by Peter Gallaher
She had no idea then
Standing in her Easter dress
With her sister;
Bridge in the background,
Sheer cliffs beyond,
Water rolling underneath,
She would not see sixty years.
A mile of water between them and cliffs,
A mile of steel to span it.
A quarter mile of stone and steel
From waves' top to sky's edge above
And she had no idea.
Before water's rolling course had done
Or steel's strength and stone's rough face
Had failed and faded
Long, long before these works of
Man and nature were memories,
Much less than that
She would be done.
Like grass which springs up
In the morning
And by evening withers;
A mere breath, at last
A memory.
Memory has no motive,
Nor goal, nor purpose.
Mere instrument, object, simple
As a hammer in the hand
Or jewel in the seer's eye.
I place memory on the bench in front of me
And begin my work.
