Where the girders meet the water tears of rust drop into deep cold above the surface rivets weeping once resilient steel no longer bold. For here is the spot the sad do find the lonely, the poor, desolate too here where wind moans and wails cries seem lost as they bid us adieu. "Two in one week it's a new record" says a Coroner as they drag the swell nobody seems to be that bothered "God this place has sure gone to hell." Another toe tagged just a statistic until a loved one gets to identify blood who became stranger in time lost and forgotten wanting to die. I hate seeing bridges rusting with age left unattended as if no-one cares perhaps with a little more attention they wouldn't attract all who despairs. © .Garry Saunders