Bridge: Twickenham
Title: The Nymph in Concrete
Writer: Tom Collins
Creative partners: Stephen Collins, artist
The work: 8in by 8in, 1.5in deep; acrylic on canvas. Image covers front and sides.
Description: A 30-line poem in five stanzas reflecting on Twickenham Bridge’s relationship with nearby Richmond Railway Bridge, its roots in the jazz age and the stories it might tell if only we’d ask.
THE NYMPH IN CONCRETE
Twickenham Bridge (with a nod to Richmond Railway Bridge nearby)
Tom Collins
Sibling bridges separated by a generation.
Its nouveau was old when your deco came along.
And while Richmond sports fondant-fancy yellow,
You are the sober one, just patinated bronze fringing solid concrete.
Solid concrete, solid concrete, solid concrete
Your traffic’s baritone rumble contrasts with the squeal
Of railway wheels close-by, metal against metal.
Above, let’s face it, you are just a road to somewhere,
The riverside below is where the magic happens.
Magic happens, magic happens, magic happens.
There, gilded by sunlight, the reflection of ripples on the Thames
Dances freely on hefty arches straddling the waters.
A young Hockney might have animated them. London meeting LA.
Beside you, knackered barges slumber after a night on the town,
On the town, on the town, on the town.
You know how they feel, you were a child of the jazz age after all.
You once danced with the Prince of Wales – he cut your ribbon –
Before he went rogue and ran off with Wallace.
Never one to kiss and tell, you keep your secrets,
Your secrets, your secrets, your secrets,
Until a gaggle of children pass underneath the arches
And unleash your unexpected echo with their song.
Voices chant, trumpets roar and we’re back in a thirties jazz club,
Thrashing in wild abandon. The echo is your superpower.
Your superpower, your superpower, your superpower.
But only knowing children, out from class, hold the key. The rest of us –
Day-trippers, joggers, courting couples, an old guy
On his mobility scooter, a woman walking her dog –
Pass under the arch in silence, oblivious to the nymph in concrete
Hiding there, and the music she could make if only we would let her.