POEM: A New Hampshire River by D. Walsh Gilbert
A river's current gives a sense of rebirth, negating possible feelings of loss.
A New Hampshire River
Having been asked by a friend, I answered
that my favorite river was the Piscataquog,
the one moving through my hometown, falling
over the granite ledge next to the drycleaners
which launders fancy dresses after parties.
A few yards upstream from the falls,
a quintessential covered bridge once spanned
over trestle tracks set for the Boston & Maine.
Here, the town boys hid in the trussed rafters
as schoolgirls tiptoed over creosote ties.
A spitball or a snowball thrown down
made them hoot and squeal in the hollow tunnel.
Mid-1970s, and the railroad bridge collapsed,
burned by flames started by no one special.
It’s not worth remembering the names
of the ones who take things away.
The river continues. Piscataquog—an estuary,
in Abenaki meaning a strong current
with branching tributaries. Different paths
for each tribal group. The bridge is gone now
like the crisping scarlet leaves dropped
from last-year’s October oak. No throughway
to guide me home, but water rushing,
it’s still deep enough to sink an anchor.