Baked by the afternoon sun,

withered yellow balloons

and ribbons bound to the railings

still jostle for attention along

with the wilting flowers and

blurred-ink cards held in place

by string and sticky-tape.

Still providing something,

even as their meaning becomes

weathered, they reshape

the concrete and steel

body of the bridge into a

structure than spans

much more than water.

 

Once,

chaldrons of coal passed

slowly underneath,

past salt-marshes and sand-banks

and into the estuary,

towards a new world

of possibility.

 

Now,

the recent memory of a city

holding its breath for 6 weeks

is carried away into the sea

by that same river, the one

that shares its name.

 

There are no reasons here,

there is nothing to be found other

than the silt and regrets

that are exposed by the low-tide of the

early morning. But sometimes,

that can be enough.

 

Gentle, yet tough,

there is clarity

and comfort

and community,

in the feeling that eventually

we will all return, gratefully,

into the deep water of history

and be part of something greater,

even if it is temporary.