Bridgepoint

It’s probably too late to be documenting this change at the point of the bridge. I missed the boat. I was so busy lamenting–WTF? The building going up at the end of my street, blocking the moon rise, blocking the sun rise, the sparrows that congregate in the ivy on the brick wall of the house at the end of Carlton, the brick road, on the lip of the valley, in the morning starting up their deafening chorus just as the first rays begin to turn the dark leaves to red gold. 

Too late, missed those images, those sounds, getting them down. Too busy saying WTF? It’s so fucking huge, it’s like why is this new building so forward? The old one was back away from the edge, small and roundish, a sort of misshapen version of the Colloseum, innocuous in its failed epic dowdy. This one, this one is monumental, like the planet in Melancholia, eclipsing the sun, the moon, looming over the Don Valley Expressway with all its glorious state of the art hospital design.

A hospital after all. How to complain? Every morning I walk past the patients in their wheelchairs, coming out onto the sidewalk for a smoke and a chat. Next door is the old Don Jail. There’s a lively little hub now over here, some life to the party. And someone has planted evening primrose on the slope of the valley just to the side. What could be bad? 

The dog walkers still walk their dogs in the morning. It used to be a bowl of honey in the first light. 

All through time people hurt like this about some change to their view, their corner of the universe. Pout and rant and turn sour. People nod. Their thoughts are elsewhere.

O bonny Portmore, you shine where you stand
And the more I think on you the more I think long
If I had you now as I had once before

All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep
Saying, “Where shall we shelter or where shall we sleep?”
For the Oak and the Ash, they are all cutten down
And the walls of bonny Portmore are all down to the ground.

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