The Plane of The Plain.

There’s a point on the motorway where, leaving the valley and beginning it’s slow climb to the city beyond, a bridge crosses from north to south.

 

At the peak of the rise it creates a picture frame that, on a clear day, holds the view of the mountains beyond.

 

Today it is clear.

 

The mountains appear suddenly as if they leapt into being that moment 

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They are French.

 

On this side.

 

Spanish on the other.

 

And on the top, snow.

 

Snow untouched by humans, too high, too jagged even to ski upon.

 

Winter snow, resisting Spring’s advance.

 

On the Spanish side they are already gone, here they stand defiant.

 

I will cross them soon.

 

Not today.

 

And even then, when, not by foot but by plane.

 

From the plain.