The Last Enchantment
Elaine Borgonia
I danced with Yvette in the early Victorian night. Outside, stars glittered like masquerade masks against a deep indigo background. Then . . . the doors opened slowly; their creaking hinges resonated above the violin music. But the soft English Waltz stopped abruptly. And Yvette, in my arms, stopped too. She looked up at the head of the looming stairway. I followed her gaze, in time to feel a gentle breeze brush past me, taking with it the sweet addicting peach aroma of Yvette's skin.
By the doorway you stood, your figure shaking
against the yellow haze illuminating from the hallway.
You came down the stairs with your faint footsteps
e c h o i n g
around and inside of me.
Gracefully, you descended;
Your long, satin, white gown rustling
trailing behind you
Like a swan hiding behind the morning mist.
Gliding across the glassy waters outside my bedroom chamber.
"Nathaniel." Yvette whispered, her hand still in mine.
(The peach blossom scent dying.)
"Nathaniel?" Around me I smelled lilacs.
I dropped Yvette's hand and turned round to look for you.
"Nathaniel" her voice drowned by the rustling of your gown.
Across the room you stood surrounded by admirers.
I saw you looking at me.
Your deep sapphire eyes beckoning to me.
I quickened my pace,
following you out the French doors onto the veranda.
The breeze, more steady now, carried the strong scent
of fresh and dying lilacs.
I closed my eyes, suddenly dizzy.
And for a moment, I thought I heard the fluttering of wings.
I stood alone in the black Victorian night.
And in my arms I held the trail of your white gown.
Somewhere in the distance I heard the sad cry of a wounded swan.
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