.
Here I am, approaching seventy-five,
and now I see it:
I am a bridge.
A quiet span between what was
and what’s still becoming.
I was born in one Britain,
now I’m parked in its digital offspring.
Coal smoke, milk floats, tin baths,
mangle wheels turning in back-kitchen gloom.
Pavements patchy with hopscotch chalk,
and in the gutters, strange, white fossils of dog doo no one yet cleaned up.
Neighbours lingered at garden gates,
their small talk drifting and billowing like washing on the line.
People moved home for hope and a career,
new faces drew curiosity rather than fear.
We waited for books, names inked inside library cards,
weeks spent wondering – who had it last?
And waiting for the hush of after tea
to sit, and read.
Patience wasn’t a virtue.
It was the rhythm of the time.
.
Then, change.
First, a hush.
Then, the hum.
Phones disappear into fists.
Music goes ghost, all signal, no skin,
nothing to hold.
News arrived before the kettle boiled.
I tapped, I swiped, checked my balance and my steps,
watched parcels race to my door.
spoke to machines,
and astonishingly, some bodiless thing named Alexa answered.
.
I remember milk clinking onto the door-step
freezing cold from early delivery.
I’ve negotiated self-checkouts,
seeing no one.
Queued outside phone boxes in the rain, fist full of change.
Now I can see pixelated smiles from oceans away.
I remember the hush
before the world blinked and buzzed.
Now I live in its flicker and hum.
.
They start from places
I arrived at late.
Into a world more wired through and through
I don’t expect them to recall
the slow, misted mornings as I do.
But I can still write a poem
or ping an email.
Tell a story from memory,
even ask Google about anything!
I’ve held envelopes
with slanted handwriting,
and watched messages
cross time zones in under a second.
Change hasn’t erased me.
It sends me on to newer shows
but still carrying yesterday’s woodsmoke in my clothes.
.
I’ve wept by graves.
Cradled breathless new life.
Watched old ailments vanish
and fresh ones arrive like uninvited guests.
I’ve unfolded maps on my knees,
then surrendered to
the soulless satellite navigator
who knows the way to everywhere.
I’ve licked stamps for postcards
that wandered continents.
Now I tap tiny hearts and yellow faces
where once I’d fumbled for words.
No bitterness in this bridge I’ve become
only gratitude, having known
both the hush and the hum.
If I can leave you anything, it’s this:
Not all beauty gleams.
Not all wisdom hurries.
There is wonder in the waiting,
and stillness
can teach as much as flight.
The world, is still fluent in mystery.
I am a bridge
worn smooth by crossings,
held steady by time.
And I’ve seen the hush fade,
the hum swell,
and the light shift
from windows to screens.
But beauty still lingers in both.
I’ve heard enough silences
between words to know…
enough to know that
every age has its wonders.
.
I learned this crossing:
love does not compress well.
Grief mistranslates when rushed.
Wonder dies the moment it is optimized.
And mystery, once hurried,
stops answering at all.
So if you must hurry, hurry wisely.
Leave some things unsearched,
unmeasured,
and late.
Some truths need time
to recognise you.
Some things should never arrive on time.
Original.
Here I am, approaching seventy-five,
and now I see it:
I am a bridge.
A quiet span between
what was
and what’s still becoming.
.
I was born in one Britain,
now I’m parked in its digital offspring.
Coal smoke, milk floats, tin baths,
mangle wheels turning in back-kitchen gloom.
Windows flung wide,
pavements patchy with hopscotch chalk,
and in the gutters, strange, white fossils of dog doo no one yet cleaned up.
Neighbours lingered at garden gates,
small talk drifting like washing.
People moving home for hope and a career
new faces drew curiosity rather than fear.
.
We waited for books
our names inked inside library cards,
weeks spent wondering
who had it last,
and waiting for the hush of after tea
to sit,
and read.
Patience wasn’t a virtue.
It was the rhythm of the time.
.
Then, change.
First, a hush.
Then, the hum.
Phones disappear into fists.
Music goes ghost, all signal, no skin, nothing to hold.
News arrived before the kettle boiled.
I tapped, I swiped, checked my balance and my steps,
watched parcels race to my door.
I spoke to machines,
and astonishingly, Alexa answered.
.
I remember milk clinking onto the door-step
freezing cold from early delivery.
I’ve negotiated self-checkouts,
seeing no one.
I queued outside phone boxes in the rain, fist full of change.
Now I watch grandchildren’s pixelated smiles from oceans away.
.
I remember the hush
before the world blinked and buzzed.
Now I live in its flicker and hum.
.
They start from places
I arrived at late.
Into a world more wired through and through
I don’t expect them to recall
those slow, misted mornings that I do.
But I can still write a poem
and ping an email.
Tell a story from memory,
even ask Google about anything!
I’ve held envelopes
with slanted handwriting,
and watched messages
cross time zones in under a second.
Change hasn’t erased me.
It sends me on to newer shows
but still carrying yesterday’s woodsmoke in my clothes.
.
I’ve wept by graves.
Cradled breathless new life.
Watched old ailments vanish
and fresh ones arrive
like uninvited guests.
I’ve unfolded maps on my knees,
then surrendered to
the soulless satellite navigator
who knows the way to everywhere
I’ve licked stamps for postcards
that wandered continents.
Now I tap tiny hearts and yellow faces
where once I’d fumbled for words.
.
No bitterness in this bridge I’ve become
only gratitude, having known
both the hush and the hum.
.
If I can leave you anything, it’s this:
Not all beauty gleams.
Not all wisdom hurries.
There is wonder in the waiting,
and stillness
can teach as much as flight.
The world,
is still fluent in mystery.
.
I am a bridge
worn smooth by crossings,
held steady by time.
And I’ve seen the hush fade,
the hum swell,
and the light shift
from windows to screens.
But beauty still lingers in both.
I’ve heard enough silences
between words to know…
enough to know that
every age has its wonders.
The words of Peter Akinwunmi (Peter Ak'i) 