'An Iceberg in the River' by Joyce Bingham

I am a glacial erratic, but my friends call me Chuck, and I live in this river, not quite in the middle. My top is smooth and I am well embedded within the riverbed, I extend down far more than people think. But my fellow stones do not induce a lot of confidence to cross the river. They can be a little shaky, in more ways than one.

The bipeds built a bridge next to me, an honour to me for my devoted service as a stepping stone. Bridge often complains about the weight it is expected to deal with. But the builders were excellent; those bipeds know a thing or two about physics.

I settled down to a retirement, to enjoy the fish gliding past and the water boatmen paddling beside me. But now the bipeds think it is a thrill to cross the river on foot.

“Dare you!” they scream to each other.

The depth of the river between me and the next rock, Sal, is more than they expect.

Sal is not reliable and often wriggles. Further dips into the water by their bodies disrupts the pebbles of the river bed and makes the channel deeper. It will all be fixed when we go into storm waters, but for now I worry about them getting hurt.

Bridge is getting old and we don’t see so much traffic these days. Children play Pooh sticks, and I do love it when I can get involved in catching the odd one.

I hope Bridge will be here as long as I am, but I fear I may lose my friend as I am eternal. I’m like an iceberg, I show only the top of me, my best stepping side.