I live within walking distance of the West Gate Bridge, I have for most of my life (or most of its life, since I was born before the bridge was built). I moved away for a few years in my twenties to live in a series of inner-city share houses and to travel, but I came back in the mid 1980s and have lived in Yarraville ever since. I see the bridge most days, usually several times a day. It is one of my Melbourne landmarks—like the Yarra and the Maribyrnong rivers, like the Eureka Towers, and the spire of St Paul’s Cathedral, it gives me my bearings.

On summer evenings, I am often drawn to taking a walk along the Stony Creek Walkway that extends across the breakwater to the Yarra. It is an ideal place to savour the fresh sea breeze that flows along the river from Williamstown, to watch the container ships make their way out of the bay and the birds playing in the wetlands. From here the bridge is a monolithic structure towering over the river, but I can rarely make it all the way to the end of the Stony Creek Walkway before I am overwhelmed by sadness.