Bending over the bridge, I look down
to watch a line of fishermen
spreading soaked and shell-encrusted
nets along the Andalusian shores,
eagles fanning their arms pinwheeling
against the purple-tinted skies
and you,
standing near the Guadalquiver
watching it thread its way
past La Vieja Negra, its gray
hull lying splintered and decayed.

Thinking of what was given up there
of what was meant to be.

© 2005 by Rhonda Niola. All rights reserved.