another brick in the wall

I stood on the left side of the bridge contemplating my next move. There didn’t appear to be, below, a river to cross. No sound of running water, birds chattering, sweet aromas of flower, buzz of insects out for blood.

All I saw were man-made structures – wrought iron bridge crafted to be a thin, narrow structure set inside the remains of an older stone bridge.

Across the bridged, there appeared to be no exit. Just a blank wall of stones or worn bricks, topped by newer ones, shifting right angles towards the street.

Lyrics from Chris de Burgh ran through my mind:  “And still that voice came from beyond, Don’t pay the ferryman, Don’t even fix a price, Don’t pay the ferryman, Until he gets you to the other side.”

I turned my back on the pseudo-bridge. I didn’t want to pay the bridge-man even if  I got to the other side.

And, I’d left my wallet in my other pants.

 

For Sunday photo fiction “deviously” devised by the sunday fictioner, also known as Al.