The Old Bridge

A short piece to be considered alongside a photograph by Jacob Barcomb

The dawn has finally started to burn, but I'm facing west.  I can feel the warmth crawling down my back.  First it's in my neck and shoulders, ever so slightly stinging it's way downward until even the backs of my thighs have come alive.  I walk out to this place each morning, leaving the din of the city behind.  The city can be so lonely.  All those people.  None of them noticing me, camouflaged by the clothes I wear.  The same clothes as everyone else.  So I come here.  To the place where no one is.  Sitting in the pitch dark, waiting for the sky to turn purple behind me, I imagine I can still hear the city.  I can hear all those alarm clocks ringing.  Each and every one.  Hating what they mean.  My time here must soon be closed.  Until tomorrow.  When I walk again down to the old bridge, but never crossing it.  Just admiring.  Just standing here.  Waiting for the river to wash away my sins.   

Reviews

[J.K. (Not Rowling)]

Master of the layered image, welcome back! This is a great companion vignette to the accompanying photo, you do have a gift (please don't forget it). I love how you captured those few magical moments between dark and dawn. I particularly enjoyed the line about being camouflaged by the clothes you wear, the same clothes as everyone else. I enjoyed the yin-yang feelings of both hope and resignation that you presented in this piece. Well done.