|London Bridge 1927,Claude Frisse Green|
The Warm Tears of London Bridge 1927
I walked along that bridge one day, alone, cut off, frightened, frozen, trapped.
I walked along that bridge on a late Saturday morning, on a day when the City of London becomes a ghost town, when the call of the family sucks the living daylights out of the place, but the call of the family never called on me, and as I paced the flagstones in this momentous place, I found it wasn't momentous anymore, it was neglected, nothing, just me, an infinitesimally small amount of significance, verging on nothing, merging into nothing
And one day I saw that exact same bridge, that exact same space; the emptiness flooded back into me, it was the 1920s, and I wondered how many other people had experienced that same level of despair, at exactly that point on the bridge, on a Saturday morning, and I cried tears in unison, and those tears warmed my face.