The Fragrant Ghost (Poetry)

I hear her in the rustle of a curtain —
feel her pass — the flicker of a flame —
her slender shadow moving through the doorway —
my fragrant ghost whose perfume spells her name...

That teasing trail which lingers on the landing —
Gardenia — waxed milky as her skin —
those shoulders petal-pale above her ball gown
made luminous from moonlight pouring in.

Her footsteps on the stair the merest whisper —
her sudden cry a sword that cuts the air —
her fall a strangely silent whirl of fabric
and then she’s lying still and broken there.

Too young, too fresh for tragedy to claim her
so each full moon relives the moment through
as I look on — quite powerless to save her
and grieving for a girl I never knew.