Poems Primarily Narrative (or not)

ON THE BRIDGE

He saw her lean on the splintered rail

that overlooked the tracks.

A gust of wind disturbed her hair

And she calmed it with her fingers.

In the distance he heard the wail

of the locomotive's heart.

It puzzled him; why was she there

so melancholy in her aspect.

And as he watched her shed her coat

his confusion only grew.

Then folded, it was placed with care

beside a pair of shoes.

Until he heard that plaintive note

he didn't understand.

But when it soon became a blare

he froze, unable to react.

She climbed atop the rail to stand

with arms outstretched for flight.

And as the locomotive passed

she flew, a silent bird.

He stumbled forth with reaching hand

a much belated gesture.

Would all his life this horror last;

this waste of youthful beauty.

Now memories through the years demand

attention to the reason.

For leaving those solutions to another,

the time had come and gone.

Stand up to facts came the command

from a conscience in turmoil.

Cleanse the heartache and the bother;

God in heaven man... you were her father!