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The dictionary defines viaduct
as a structure which carries a railway
or road over a valley. But to me
viaduct is the reddish arches beside
Pymmes Brook, the cathedral aisle which slopes
upwards past the hedge of the bowling green
and the tennis courts, the slants of sunlight on walls,
on earth floors. The viaduct is guardian
of Snake Island where my child paddled
deep into imagination, it's keeper
of the park where I walk to renew myself,
where yesterday I passed the flamboyant red
of an autumn sycamore, saw whirling dots
of starlings settle in an oak that at once
became a singing tree, each bird
a note on the stave of twigs.
I will never strip
the viaduct to its bare facts: the height
of its arches, dirty pink patches on bricks,
or even the stains from water trickles though
they resemble ...