THE CROSSING PLACE

A sepia postcard dusty with time and fingered edges flaking inside the metal tin. Lifted free the scene lives.

A scent of horse and sulky, guided by a driver in pale dress and petticoats picking their way down the muddy incline.
Weir-edged, the pooled water mirrors a ruffled scene.
Framed by trees sentinel in paddocks, logs washed adrift and stranded at the flood mark.
Post and rail fence and raised pedestrian bridge edge the main road.
The road submerged at the crossing place widens to a muddy apron.

She crossed over elsewhere.

We met here today, at the crossing place.

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