Your deck on lattice trusses sat
The wrought-iron made in Ballarat;
From bluestone, masons crafted piers
And abutments so you’d last for years.
And that you did, one can’t deny
Until a new bridge passed you by.
So now you sit and silently wait
While Nature slowly seals your fate.
And though they still make claims for you
With words like historic and technical, too
Your significance appears to be slipping away
Another victim of progress, they say.
© Jim Low
Read the article, From Bung Bong to Lapstone Hill