Swingbridge Cafe, Lorne – Friday 6th April 2012

The bridge groans, straining under its own weight. Cables fish in the river, quivering like arms wracked with some old pains. The cross-beams sag, itching for the soothing embrace of the water, rocking slowly as if to lull themselves to sleep. The bridge is tired. Paint peels under the sun, wood strains engorged in the heat that gave it germination. Water-marks creep up its concrete legs, the sea slowly tightening its grip on the monolithic structure not as grand as the trees it was cut from. These alien roots soak in the water, unable to force life into the ancient grained pillars. Their careful placement breathes of aqueducts and stone colosseums. They will not fall, the bridge groans. Sand sucks hungrily at footings, the cable arms reach for the murky depths. The trees, beheaded and strung up, pull at their constraints with the weight of the Earth. Evermore creak the old latticed bones.

By YouthfulParaphernalia.wordpress.com

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