The Curse

Despite good advice,
you can feel the wide boards
miles ahead. The road snakes
past farm and fen,

edges meadows of yarrow, rue,
plowed rows before sowing.
Swallows dart through the line of poplars,
wind threading the leaves

into a curtain of green.
You train your eyes toward the ruts
running into your future,
where the river swells with spring melt,

a cold rush between banks.
The oak planks will creak,
not ready for your day—or worse,
the bridge will have washed away.