Nothing Left

Occasioned by Thomas Hardy (Thoughts of Phena (1890))

 
Her délicatessence distilled in a fragrance
Stoppered in a vial for a mourner’s tears
Re-awakens sun-lanced lotus memories: 
The secret temple garden we uncovered
Long neglected in a forest thicket
Delighted over at green-mist daybreak.
 
Days of endless hours of wine pleasance
Unrolling like horseback Caucasian plains
Her hotel balconied cello nocturnes
Caressing the waters of Lake Constanza
Before… before the glowering darkening:
Our pain-wracked long goodbye unrolling.
 
Her fragrance, still lingering
In a flask of weeping, 
‘Not a thread of her hair… not a line of her writing.’

© coolhermit 2019
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critique and comments welcome.

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