Smeaton's Bridge

Had to go into Perth today for a hair cut. Hate having my hair cut, she always straightens it, despite my protestations, and I come out looking like Dougal from the Magic Roundabout.
This is Smeaton's Bridge and this is my poem about Smeaton's Bridge
On Smeaton’s Bridge.
 
Pick a day, any day,
now, hold it in your head,
and let me guess.
 
Is it August?
Has the river trapped the sun
beneath its skin and spun it
to a shining molten thread?
 
Or late December,
when the skyline, coral sharp,
spawns one moon egg
to drift amidst a milt
of winter stars?
 
And am I with you on the bridge,
watching as the blackened
water snags like stocking silk
against the piers?
 
Is it here? Is it now?