Under Pooley Bridge, the river Eamont flows
past the busy lakeside scene; with
lots of tents and caravans, and small
boats tied up by the green.
On Ullswater, a steamer passes by,
people waving to the shore; all
masked and socially distanced
with covid at the door.
We sit at Grannie Dowbekins by
the bustling new bridge site; men
in hard hats pouring concrete,
trying to get it right.
So many memories gathered here,
with family trips aplenty; my
little granddaughter paddling,
now she is passing twenty.
We gather for her birthday lunch
beside the flowing stream; past
blending in the present day
as by the bridge we dream.