Parisienne

She sat on the steps to the Sacre Coeur,                                                                                           About her shoulders a pink woollen shawl,                                                                                       A few small coins in a tin at her feet.

She watched the pilgrims climbing towards her,                                                                             Her eyes darting from face to face,                                                                                                   Her outstretched hand cupped hopefully.

The white dome, stark against the dark blue sky                                                                           Drew the pilgrims’ gaze ever upwards,                                                                                             And striving to reach their goal, they passed her by.

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