Serendipity

There's a village in South of France where I used to spend my summers when I was young. In this village there was a bridge. An old Bridge with big rocks, and a river underneath.
They say there's no place like home but this place has some kind of magic, a wooden bench on a bed of grass just under a weeping wellow. This place has some kind of magic, but nobody knows, because nobody never comes around here.
Just like here and now.
39,073,454 deviations and it's still rolling.
Are they all throwing a bottle in the see?
Does the perfect art lies on a place like this village where you can never go if you're not told to?
They call it Serendipity and there's no word for it in my mother langage, but it's the only way to describe it.
Maybe those words are lost, maybe I should have taken a picture, maybe it's just imagination that does it all...