River at Sunset

Snow White stops at the statue of Blind Justice,
looks west to a mirror brimming with old gold sun,
ivory sky on copper clouds, flame-windowed
houses billowing from reedy banks.
She's said goodbye to her seven friends, thinking:
No more perfect little plates and cups
and beds! No more mole stew! As she runs down
the steps, a battered white Valiant brakes
with a clunk: her lawyer. She recalls his strong words
in court, (voice softened to question her), those cheeks
veined with burgundy — and knows he'd forsake
even his beloved wine bars for her.
She waves then turns left — heading for that
alchemical shimmer. Sea birds wheel through
honeyed air, float on river-light. Her eyes
drink in the whiteness of heron and pelican.
She has resurrected herself once again.
Some bread she throws is caught by gulls; the rest
by geese waddling to where she stands, barefoot
on springy grass. They form a circle round her.