Intensive care

The lights have gone out over the river.

My bridge is poorly. A poster plastered on the outside of the hoardings, hiding its true state of disrepair, states that it must be closed and repaired or it may die. Ugly blue corrugated iron replaces the sugar candy colours along its span and men in hard hats suck their teeth as they peel back layer upon layer of my bridge's delicate skin, to see how far the infection has spread.

No cars can cross any more and pedestrians are forced to zig-zag hither and thither, channelled down high blue corridors. We peer through judiciously placed windows to see the mortality of that which we have always thought to be permanent, everlasting. Under the tarmac lie wooden planks, below that some steel girders and the open water. That's all that separates our (now less confident) feet from the deep.

The bridge seems to rock and sway under my feet more than before. I look suspiciously at the engineers - what qualifies them for this delicate surgery? How can I be sure that they won't sever an artery or cut off a limb inadvertently? I keep vigil and hope that all will be well.