by Sharon Black

From Nîmes it came through the valleys,
up the single-track road. Two gendarmes
and the mayor, our neighbour Bernard too, watched
as thirty tons of iron and steel unfolded,

an origami limb dropping the line –        
straps in place, it hoisted the car twenty, forty feet,
the river pouring from it,
half a tree lodged in the boot.

Between the bridge and Road Closed sign,
we squinted east, watching it extend to its highest point:
one joint lowering the wreck, the other
holding up the sun.