Precarious, broken bridge

A halfway daft invitation,
you’ve been here such a long time,
who’s to say you wouldn’t hold me?

Not for display, this tumbledown place
hard scrabble banksia, naff Colorbond
shed, not much heritage value there.

But I can’t refuse those long
stems of lepironia sprouting
between your broken planks,

the crazed tilt of your camber,
knowing this leads precisely
nowhere, only to a pile

of mulch and a darker world:
floor of she-oak needles, hint
of Hansel and Gretel, undergrowth

haven for robins and wrens.
These boots are old anyway,
I’m coming straight across. 

I would like to acknowledge the Arakwal people of the Bundjalung Nation who are the traditional custodians of the land where the Byron Writers Festival is held.