By Rebecca McMinn
There’s people standing on the bridge. A breeze blows in the morning air, as cool here as it's ever been in Autumntime. They’ve always come: From Bristol out to Somerset, they walk in twos. They came to cross the bridge and see what Clifton looks like from up high. And while the wrought-steel, creaking spine would carry them from side to side, the Avon underneath them flowed. They watched the water from above, just like the folks who come here now to cross the bridge. They’re just the same: They walk in twos.
The Jumble 