a bridge in Portugal

 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.