This is for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt.
In the spring, the river was a torrent, unfordable and violent. Sometimes it reached the parapet of the bridge. Once the parapet had been washed away. The bridge squatted astride the water, waiting patiently for the next onslaught.
The bridge was old, older than anyone could remember, older than their grandfathers and great-grandfathers could remember. But the stones were older still. The stones had been born in the first struggles of the cooling earth and had lain for millennia deep beneath the new crust, holding it up to the sun so green things would grow.
The stones were the bones of the earth, the massive tracery between the tender skin and the fiery bowels. Men dug them from their resting place, wrenching the structure of the earth apart to build their own paltry, ephemeral tracery on the skin, cutting and burning the growing things and scattering their chains over the destruction.
The stones of the bridge groaned in each spring flood and every century or so, a few of them would break free and tumble into the rushing water. The bridge squatted astride the water, waiting patiently for the next onslaught.
Beneath the bridge, men had built a tunnel to maintain the stonework and the drainage. The men had forgotten what lay at the end of the tunnel where is dipped and delved and dived out of sight. Not even their grandfathers or their great-grandfathers would have remembered even the stories of its source. The stones remembered and the stones knew that soon the anger that had been slowly boiling through the millennia would break its bounds, rising up through all the secret, forgotten tunnels spider-webbed across the earth.
The bridge squatted astride the water, waiting patiently for the final onslaught.