The Tourist

With the wind behind her back,
she rode with panache,
perched upon high.
A queen, they thought.

Stains of bravado
on her skirt, coruscated,
serving as reminders.
A warrior, they awed.

For hours, they watched,
but couldn't see.
Obscure then pellucid.
Agony and then Elysium.

But when she left with him,
A thief, they declared.