A two hundred and fifty year old bridge
gone. Destroyed in a winter’s afternoon,
by the torrent pouring off from the ridge,
the lake rising rapidly in the monsoon,

a classic steamer wrecked on the pontoon.
The entire village of Glenridding
now distant as colonies on the moon,
the Earth council dubious, then forbidding
any work – people refuse their bidding,
get their diggers and rebuilt their nation.
Three times flooded in two weeks, ridding
all hope: no aid reaches the location.
The replacement bridge is put off without reason
then we recall that March begins the tourist season.

by Amy Hodkin