A Bridge Too Far

A Bridge in Portugal There had been much rain in the upland and the river ran strong, so forceful that a pillar, on the old bridge, broke off and half of it fell. Misty night when a bus crossed the bridge, 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 hours to 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. A new bridge has been built, the old one is still there and boys jump off 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.