We emerge at the end of the abandoned railway tunnel to find a gaping hole where we used to access the old trestle bridge. Rocks and trees pile together above rushing water in the newly formed gorge.
We shiver, shaking off the long journey and gaze at our bridge, a place our feet have swung from a thousand times. Our clasped hands swing between us and our clothing, our books, our photos, our elderly neighbour, our clean drinking water, everything we lost in the flood collapses into the chasm, as lost to us now as our path to the bridge.
We shiver, shaking off the long journey and gaze at our bridge, a place our feet have swung from a thousand times. Our clasped hands swing between us and our clothing, our books, our photos, our elderly neighbour, our clean drinking water, everything we lost in the flood collapses into the chasm, as lost to us now as our path to the bridge.
