Dry splintered wooden flakes crumbling from decades of neglect, being carried away on the hot breeze floating above the river.
Its red rusted penny nails, bowing, bent over, surrendered and beaten into the timbers by British POW's decades ago.
Worn sleepers laid atop tired pillars, holding the memories of the lost is all that remains of the original bridge that now lies dormant.
Long past is the sounds of the big sooty black iron horses billowing smoke and spitting sparks from its firebox.
Its heart, a bright as they charge across the wooden bridge, clickity-clack and steam from its whistle tooting above the River Kwai its echos lost around its snaking riverbanks.
A few years on, with two gauges of rails a new bridge appears.
Spanning fifteen hundred and thirty-five meters, its centred matt black path, and worn shiny diamond-plate, polished from years of people and animals traversing the walkway, lead people across.
The dance to pass someone, stepping over the rail then back again is like a well-choreographed performance.
When you feel the vibration, then hear the thunder of a train coming, you step onto an overhanging river balcony stretched out from the bridge, it's so moving.
its centred matt black path, and worn shiny diamond-plate
Long past is the sounds of the big sooty black iron horses billowing smoke and spitting sparks from its firebox.
A few years on, with two gauges of rails a new bridge appears
Underneath the bridge, motorboats with long shafts and open propellers race past the lingering steel giant, its motor pivoted and steered as a whole, balanced on a single mount.
