In the velvet hours before the punts’ groan,
Essex’s ghost leans in contemplation.
How long did it take to birth that first equation?
Etheridge, the architect, would have known.
In daylight, tourists drift along the Cam,
Listening to a guide’s well-worn oration –
Apocryphal, but heard with appreciation,
Before their tour moves to another span,
Where Essex once tested the arching scope
Of the building plan. A river-silted mystery,
Written out of any Cambridge history,
It joined the streets to fields of wheat and oats.
No trace of its aged timbers now remain
And other bridges have stood in its place.
The centuries have changed the city’s face
Where willows dip at Garret Hostel Lane.
Time passes – fallen leaves upon the river.
Scholars come and go – some pause a fraction.
Though most do not appreciate Queens’ treasure.
The sensitive among them may well shiver
Or feel a chill as Essex takes their measure.