Mark Carson

                    It springs across the river like a slice of rainbow,

                    arched as a vertebrate, golden in the sunlight

                    and the mayor cuts the ribbon, the councillors are ready

                    and they all march together, march across the Guadiaro.

                    Is it not a great idea, a bridge so light and springy?

                    The laminated timbers so pretty and so buoyant?

                    The abutments are substantial, the footings thick and massive,

                    and the bridge rests lightly, lightly on its ledges. 

                                            *        *        *

                    The rain fell heavy in the Guadiaro catchment,

                    red with mud the river rose, covering the footings

                    and the river surged and rose again, thrusting the abutments

                    and again the turbid river rose, tearing at the handrails.

                    Who could imagine the buoyancy of timber?

                    Who would consider the drag loads on the structure?

                    Who did the sums on the piddling little brackets,

                    the tension, the shear, the bending and the torsion?

                    The goats and the sheep retreated to the hilltops,

                    watched as the racing spate tore the banks asunder,

                    watched as the carcasses were tumbled down the valley,

                    watched as the pretty footbridge wrenched itself to pieces.

                    Where will it end, the bridge, and what the hell can stop it?

                    Smashing through the gorges, crunching on the boulders,

                    tossing under viaducts and swept across the weir, 

                    the stepping stones, past long-abandoned piggeries,

                    until it crashes, snags against the Old Bridge.

                    Snags and floats and traps the trunks of willow trees, 

                    of splintered, fractured alamos and olive brash and figs

                    and oleander torn from sodden banks. It rises like a floating dam,

                    the water flooding over terraces, creeping up the door frames,

                    sluicing through the sockets and the fusebox, lifting tables,

                    chairs, cupboards, sofas, floating in a tangle to the ceiling,

                    twisting shutters from their pintle hinges, toilet doors

                    and pictures, prints. Guitars from hooks. Cushions.

                    Books from shelves, maps and guides from folders,

                    useless telephone directories, magazines,

                    a grim confetti, paper-porridge slopping in the slimy flow.

                    There’s no transparency, just thick brown oxtail,

                    rich in clay washed from the groves of olives,

                    ploughed lands, hillsides scarified and naked.

                    Quietly, it starts to settle, thick and smeary.

                    Now the water’s reached the Old Bridge deck,

                    crushing foliage up against the chainlink handrail.

                    Abruptly the bridge gives way, the concrete pier 

                    collapses, prising its footing from the river bed.

                    A hundred thousand tonnes of water make a charge for freedom

                    down the valley, tearing the gable from the house below,

                    scattering roof tiles. From the broken windows 

                    of the flooded houses, water spews.