This one from the archives is for the Writers Island prompt “The Journey”.

The Arches

That day we floated
down the brownish river
in a makeshift ship,
a construction site derelict
stolen in the half light of dusk,

we were maybe twelve
in wet blue jeans
and tee shirts rolled
at the sleeves according to custom
in those placid fifties.

The tainted shallow water
was no hindrance
that warm August day; to us
it was just cool
in the heat.

The tall dark bridge seen
through the downstream haze
looked imposing from where we
sat. Its high shadowed arches
rising ominously to the clouds.

Our progress slowed in the shallows
by dragging the old mortar box
over the mud and rocks,
stopping occasionally
to chase the Crayfish

from their hiding places
that summer on the river
called “Bronx”
looking ahead to that bridge
fearing to go under it

lest some strange thing
come from the shadows
of its tall arches
looming ahead, so close now
portending doom.

Yet we push on slowly,
determined to make memories
of our young fear not realizing
we would never make it
that far.