Under The Geurie Bridge
We were told there were plenty of Murray cod.
Tyre tracks leading down the embankment,
dead branches jutting out of water
under the Scabbing Flat Bridge—
a single lane crossing with chalky timber trusses,
steel bottom chord.
God was against us was what I said.
No connecting braces; waterbirds whistling.
The moon set slowly behind gum trees and pines.
Bald Hill Reserve.
Wise spraypainted down a timber pole and
across one of the cast iron piers.
I love the irony of this.
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