People crossing a bridge, looking down

proudly on the flat expanse of water

with no boats or birds, smoke rising

in the distance, the faint hum of a factory

echoing up off the water. The trees are

sooty, the men and women staring

as they walk have wide open whites

and grimy skin. And yet in their flat

caps and overalls, bent, resigned,

they are in love, all of them, with the morning.

The sun is not quite up yet, the sky

is that unbelievable pink before dawn,

there are no lights on in the houses

by the river, all the curtains are drawn,

but the men and women whose nailed boots

clank on the deck of the old iron bridge,

who are going across to be shut up inside

for the day watching things flow, guiding

the odd piece of stuff that gets out of line,

mutter to themselves and do not know

as they look down and start to tap out

the rhythm of a song with their tongues

against their teeth, do not know they are

proud of the water holding still between

tides below, and of the stillness that comes

through to their ears from beyond the patient

pounding of their feet and of the dull roar

of the factory coming nearer. Someone

has left a horse in a field. It looks up

from time to time between bends to nuzzle

the wet grass. The men and women see the horse.

They smile. They are proud. They go inside

the gates, hear the whistle, proud of the horse.