That was one lady who came to a bad end

by way of the innocuous: soft reeds

played by a Zephyr, hints of distance and melody,

isolated chords of sunlight in their evening finale.

The gods undoubtedly weep for her memory

amongst billy-goats on some Arcadian hilltop.


But now, via a whimsy of Medical Science,

her name’s transformed, become disease, degeneration,

wherein motion and feeling,

subtracted, disintegrated, set a stage,

along a dismal road of quiet anticipation–

for the coup de gras.


Had she known, had she known, one must wonder,

if she actually would have panicked,

have run, as she did, for the river?

What he, her pursuer, interpreted

as love, and she, as abusive sexuality,

might otherwise have resulted

in a cordial, if not fruitful

relationship. But water nymphs

apparently lack this foresight; on the other hand,

a hot, hormonal stimulation, may make

fools of even the most high and mighty.