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.