who fade into the mist,
young and old, hand in hand
that fortune chose to bless.
They never notice that I watch
with eyes that span the time
that seek some distant memory
which age does not define.
The haze obscures the distances
to where such thoughts may flee
and all the while, beneath the bridge
flows the river to the sea.
My eyes are gray of weariness
and yet the memory's there:
that once upon this very spot
love had not been fair.






3 old applause
