her dark
yet golden
hair lies
on the old
worn parapet
as sellers
hawk their
tawdry wares
and visitors
gawk unaware
not noticing in
the turbulent
flow below
the dark
stark arch
an autumn
wind torn
bow swirls
its way
north to
elbe and sea
without
warning
startled
she drops
a flower
a rose
I think
in memory
of love's
lost lives
swans turn
she's gone

10/29/2006