The nearest tower perched ‘pon its abutment – stone of the Age Of Man Industrious secured atop a sculpture of the Age Of Ice. Configured in a grotesque show of domination to the trees of th’adjacent woods, the nailed ‘n knotted cuttings of dismembered trunks stood, scaffold-bracing.
A gull alit, a-lightly, on a length of timber as the timbre of its undulating call caused crashing waves of echoed sound to bridge the Avon. It preened at its grey-tinged feathers before pacing the abutment’s edge.
“Are you waiting to cross, my friend? You’ll be here a while. The bridge construction is suspended. Get it? No? Yes?! Oh. Well, you didn’t laugh, is all. Unless you wanna take your solitary way along these solitary sinews, stretched in iron o’er the chasmic void, I suggest walking. Best come back when the towers are washed in white ‘n topped with the gaudy sphinxes Brunel dreams of adding for to crown his tow’ring feat. He should go all out ‘n line the bridge with obelisks… Walk the woods; give those wings a break; make your way unto the harbour. And if you still have your sights set fast on Clifton, where the wealthy wend their leisure, you need only traipse the incline, b’yond the walks ‘n walls of Brandon Hill, and find yourself right there, atop another ice-cut giant, longing for to cross the Avon Gorge.”
The gull unfurled its mature wings ‘n chased the scattered rain to the river’s surface.
Image credit – BBC News