Water under the bridge

Water under the Bridge

The Thames once ran wild beside the old stone arches,
Its silver fingers scrabbled between the cobbles;
Now river‑creek has settled into quiet,
The water a soft lull, a hush beneath the city.

Pavements have that old patina, a story in walking creases,
As puddles whisper of summers we’ve let go.
The bridge—former line of arguments, a scar—
Has thawed, and its current has carried the bitterness away.

In the lane where the lorry’s engine hissed at sunset,
The reflective sheet of water mirrors a sky‑washed horizon.
Each ripple tells, “Forget what’s past, let it drift;
We’re all moving forward, feet on path not what we once imagined.”

The family matriarch, cheeky beat,‑on‑beat,
Sits by the riverbank, a teacup in hand;
She chuckles openly at the old quarrels,
Says, “Water? It’s just water under the bridge!”

In Britain’s hearts we learn this simple truth:
A broken glass may shatter at the edge of a wall;
The act of letting it sail on waves unmounted—
Washes away, for calmer days, that very day.

So heed the river’s lesson: current forgets the past,
And the bridge—stubborn like memory—remains, proud, unhurried.
Just like our weather: drizzles, sun, storms, and a calm after;
All a part of life, all part of the water under the bridge.