Frangipani

She smelled of flowers, coloured the vaporous Easter Sunday air, wafted like pink Frangipanis in the kept up gardens of an old Norbrook home. Wept petals affronted lawns bevelled to a bigoted mahogany door and menacing roman columns. Her undulations in the window, like a gauzy white curtain. Caged wisp. She befriended me one day and we entwined – she, the Frangipani and me, a Rag Weed. We frolicking pair tossed carefree hours to the twilight. She never cared for shoes and I miss those impish toes revelling like dewy pink petals on the grass where she kissed my servile girlish lips. In a wink of sinewed lives, mahogany door boarded, roman columns indifferent, lawn wild, and the Frangipani withered.