Meditations Beneath Westgate Bridge
Neck bent back,
looking up from beneath
Westgate Bridge,
its sheer height overwhelms
with its wide stretch hung
in the heavens, tyres printing out
a constant hum across
its concrete span.
The mind reaches up in wonder
to grasp how such weight holds
firm in air, why it doesn't sag
or snap under the strain.
The bridge seems too monumental
to fail, it floats on the near
divine, born of the mathematical
certainties calculated
by the human mind.
And yet thirty five human souls
rode a span downwards
crashing to earth when the bridge
was being built,
their faces disappearing
in a mist of numbers, their lives
printed in river silt. High above,
people now ride its wonder
every day on their way to work.
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