A Bridge in Portugal
There had been much rain in the upland and the river ran
full and strong, so forceful that a pillar, on the old bridge,
broke off and half of it fell down.
Misty night when a bus crossed the bridge, plunged down
into churning inferno, for its passengers a few seconds of
terror before death came as a blessing. Thirty people had
been aboard going home, it took hour before families of
the disappeared knew of this immense tragedy.
None was ever seen again but one; a woman found on
the strand in France, skeletal hands pressed to her face,
open mouth and the echo of a scream as eye sockets
accusatorially looked up to a silent the sky.
Summer, a new bridge has been built, but the old one
is still there and daring boys jump from it, for them what
happened a winter eight years ago is history. It must be
that way, life must go on and the river must run towards
the ocean and eternity.