First Saturday together

with your son at Bradford Museum of Film and Photography.

The bridge radiated
its structural pains
as the train ran over its spine.

I struggled to explain
to ten-year old Ben
why these shimmering lines of stress changed

with the altering weight

of the locomotives passage.

You urged your son to listen to me, as you had urged him not to talk to strangers,

I was a stranger to him.

Behind its glass the train went nowhere, but out and back

across the same bridge

showing its structural pains

through special lens

to each curious onlooker.

The special lens of our eyes looking out the Museum window. We wondered at the massed flight of birds dipping and arching

over the city as the sun faded.

Ben shifted from foot to foot

as I held your hand.

Ben drummed his fingers as I smelt your hair,moving your body closer to mine.

Each bird adapting the air
under Its wings
as its partner adapted the same;
a swarm of grey specks.

We looked tor ages
through our lens
at the massed display.

Ben asked why they moved like that. The birds went nowhere
but out and back
across the same city.

Ben was a stranger to them.