Arthur Poem by Evelyn Judy Buehler

Mysterious as the night,
Shadowy figure of towering height,
Eyes of black, perhaps contrite,
He walks in starlight.
The night is fine,
As the oaks intertwine.
From a window of mine,
I watch him pass the vine.
Sleep is not imminent,
In this hour of discontent,
When thoughts won't relent.
I am anguish. I am torment!
The clock says three.
Nightingale sings in tree.
In my soul, there's little harmony.
In my heart is a plea.
When red sun's gone down,
Sometimes Arthur haunts the town.
In silence we drown.
Torn wedding gown!