We sat atop bridges, though
Our lives we couldn’t cross.
Though I loved her lots,
She felt for me dross.

Poised blandly admiring murky
Waters of the Ochlocknee,
I forgot about her and dreamed
Of my old home near the sea.

Near Fargo I was wading shallowly
The swamp’s Suwanee, bridge overhead.
In the tea waters splashing, I’d been warned
To veer from dark spots or wind up dead.

Swamp, my Swamp, where I feel at home,
I walk above wildlife on a boardwalk
Which in the end woodenly towers
Presenting a view of where soulless stalk.

I’ve fished in you when of small age;
I was too bored sitting to catch much.
All I wanted was to walk the trails
With bridges, canoe, and some such.

There were no bridges at Trader’s Hill
Where I developed swimming skills,
But there was a boat ramp and dock
And at times a gator—sorta like a croc.

Stroking North of you on clean waters
Can be found near the lottery of D & L’s
A perilous span with black canals beside
That could not comfortably solace with rails.

I always mesmerizedly feared falling in
The abysses whilst we drove
And deadly would I be found
By unlucky rescuers who dove.

On Danespoint, which my stepfather maintained,
I intoxicatedly breathe in the angled heights
Of the St. Johns while a lesser part of me
Was given acrophobic chills and frights.

But Fernandina salt marshes at sunset
Is the image I’ve always had for love.
Many times I’ve abrasively stared
At that vegetated waterway from above.