I looked at the silver mud along the banks of the river. A month ago it was filled with birds. You could see them scurrying even at night. Now they have gone. The seasons are changing and the mud is becoming bare. The gulls’ heads are taking on their summer colour. It’s as if the dunlins never happened. But they will be back. All of life succumbs to the gyre. Once we accept it, we can begin to make predictions, begin to understand the pleasures and the horrors that are as yet out of sight.
The guns were silenced yesterday.
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.