by Geoffrey Bristol
...lives in a room overlooking the river to my home; I land there often: the quiet, frozen suitor. She is childlike, a maiden of the valley. We talk, and tea, and stroll in the garden. I offer her a white-gloved hand; she smiles. I ride home at dusk, and watch the water. She lives alone, humming, and trimming her gowns.
Geoffrey Bristol visited a few evenings ago.