In mourning, the pretty woman lifts her parasol.
Having once crossed the bridge each day with her dear one,
She thinks it a bitter joke on death and healing,
The bridge’s shuddering raise and trembling fall.
The river shivers to a walk — then starts to run,
Sends the boats bow up and down and keeling.
She has always hurried over the steel-shod planks
And never once stepped where the two halves meet.
She saw no beauty there, neither ancient or fleet,
Though for passage she would always whisper her thanks.
No more. She wishes the bridge would quickly unclose
And without looking down she’d step onto nothing,
The parasol filling with thick air and ripping,
Her dress a bloom around her face like a black rose.
