Not for her, this place of shining silence; she is haste and neon hues, a mouth stretched smile-wide with gleaming malice, a din, a bruise. For her: a glassed demesne, a churning in the flows, a copse of beeches, damascened, a jagged rose. Let her stride where the towers hide the sky, where the sun fails in cold canyons and the wind whines. No, not for her this green and singing solace, this bird-flashed lake, the silver fall of night. Caught in a mirror deep, she takes no notice, enchanted by her own reflected light.