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.