I have been to the bridge. It was like many bridges. Cars passed over it, old and new. Pedestrians shivered in the cold and made their slow way too. The city is full of gleaming skyscrapers, swish offices and red brick heritage sites. Tourists with rucksacks smile. But the bridge is an iron ghost. The traffic wheezes along with a groaning sound, disappearing away into the rubble and grit outlands of redevelopment. Soon offices will fall into these craters from the heavens. Men in suits will come and fill their lives with plastic, while history echoes like an underground river.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts