The duck-billed AVE, silent, slides
from hard-nosed, noble, soft Madrid’s
shrill sad cat-calls and hipster kids
and fast-slow tops the frigid plain,
glides nonchalantly through ink black
unlit hills into grey-drenched light.
Alighting, taxi-sped, the sight
of ancient aqueduct, craftful
stack of unmortared stones now dry,
elicits mortal, weary sigh –
for somehow broken from its source
artful span’s storied course is run,
its form though fine, its function done.
And wet snow melts like youth’s remorse.

Rupert Moreton

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