She sat on the riverbank, close to the Rotunda.
It had been recently rejuvenated, with paint~ with a flair.
Colourful little touches embellished the stark white, on the upright stands, and the interior of the canopy.
Occasionally, on Sundays, bands used the Rotunda, to play oom-pa-pa music, with trumpets and trombones and uniformed men, looking rather self conscious. A few people even came to listen, and, on sunny days, when the grassy banks were not damp, they would sit and clap, in small desultory bursts of applause.
This day, there was no band. Only the ducks were present, going about their duckish business. Paddling about, seeking who knew what, amidst the water, of the river, as it slowly meandered along.
It was Autumn, and the large leaves of the trees lining the banks were golden and orange and pale lemony-lime, spent greens, as they fell onto the grass and into the water. Their season for being had ended, and now they were destined to be part of the everchanging cycle of the river, the water, forever moving along. Life and death, the neverending cycle of the seasons. So calm, and so serene, as they floated by. She wondered idly, if they knew their season had ended. Wondered at the brief life they had had.
Then she thought about the wonderful striking, almost dazzling, dizzying, shades, of limey greens, so arresting in their bright youth, of the Spring, when they burst forth, from the bare branches, and spread their wonderful canopy of rich green dapples in the sunlight, as the Spring turned to Summer, and the wonderful blooms became part of the splendour of the trees, the parents, to all the glory. The flowers looking like bright pink candles or pyramids of colour, so pretty, and enchanting.
She thought about her life, and the sadness she felt. She wished she was a fallen leaf, to be carried away by the river's flow. She would feel no more pain. She could just fade into the passage of nature, and not have to feel pain, or sorrow, for her losses.
The shadows were long, and it was suddenly chilly. She stood up, and wondered how she could return to her life, which seemed so pointless. She wondered if she could ever really feel again, if the pain and agony would ever end.
She tried to tell herself, Time is a passage, just like this river. It never stays the same, and moves along at it's own pace. For now, for her, the passage was much to slow. She wished the river was deeper, or fast flowing, and she could fling herself into the water, and be swept along, with leaves, to another destiny.