Letters To A Namesake (Poetry)

On a chill November morning
the first short letter came
on pastel paper scented
like orchards after rain
addressed to someone other
than me who shared my name.

I read it over breakfast
the handwriting was neat
although the words meant nothing
the message incomplete
and no clue to its author
the sender too discreet.

Anonymous affection
inked careful on the page
made fascinating reading
spoke from another age
a prose style so romantic
seemed certain to engage.

Such sentiments of longing
were palpable as though
the paper with its perfume
enclosed the fading glow
the ghost of summer over
a time lost long ago...

Some part of me felt haunted
it played upon my mind
and then a fortnight later
another of its kind
arrived — the tone more urgent
yet somehow more resigned.

That sense of melancholy
pervaded like a dream
I couldn’t shake on waking
it dimmed the light between
the weight of sorrow on me
unnatural — too extreme.

The third one came at Christmas
I kept it in a drawer
unopened. Other greetings cards
scooped up from off the floor
wished me every happiness
the season had in store.

The New Year brought the fourth and last
the writing still the same
precise despite such drama — not
one blot to smudge my name
though surely now the sender knew
her passion was in vain.

I did not dare to witness how
she clung to fading hope
my intuition warned I must
avoid despair provoked
by empathy proved so intense
my own emotion choked.

I took those letters — four in all
(and two of them unread)
I held them in the candle’s flame
while fervent prayers were said
the words not mine but through my lips
I answered the long-dead.

I fancied in the smoke I saw
the image of a face
fleeting as a shadow moves
when light is changing place
then nothing but a pile of ash
to mark regret’s thin trace.

I watched myself across the room
cast out her sorrow’s grey
from that high window soft night breeze
blew all its dust away
and with the dawn forgiveness broke
along with a new day.