Before the memories of our Siberian winter interlude fade and the Beast from the East shrinks before the outrages of the Pest from the West* (guess who and I don’t mean Storm Emma), here’s a poem which testifies to the addictive nature of Bridge and the drive to get one’s “fix”. As with the previous post, this piece began in a Macclesfield Creative Writing Group workshop, an inspired, last minute theme chosen by Alan Horne for the hardy souls who had braved the blizzard conditions.
* I’ve heard this phrase coined independently from 2 sources, poet John Lindley and my recent bridge partner Beryl Footman.
March Madness: A Bridge Too Far
It was madness.
15 minutes to skim away the Volvo’s white mantle,
remove the snow blindfold from its windows,
scrape, scrape, scrape away the ice cataracts,
release imprisoned wipers from screen’s tenacious grip,
prise open the doors fused to ice-box bodywork.
Tugs of desperation resisted, brute force
from red gloved hands, gloved red hands,
a screech of disapproval, refusal from the doors:
“We’re not going anywhere! You’re not going anywhere!”
Once inside, a stomp to unleash compacted snow
and a rush to generate that vital heat.
A tractor’s roar. The engine bursts into life.
We creep out onto the rink.