I did not cross the bridge that day,
Though stood and looked upon its arch,
Its mossy carpet, soft within the mist,
Lead to a wood of distant larch.
Perhaps with some regret, I might add,
I turned away from what I’d seen
And the future promise of a secret view
Became a thought of what might have been.
I guessed, as I listened to the distant sound
Of quiet thunderous waters fall,
I would one day return to that scene
And without the mists would see it all.
But in telling this little memory tale
My memory fades of that little track
And I can no longer find the bridge
And therefore never able to go back.