Gathering Ghost Flowers

There's a place in the woods
which no one knows
where she comes from each day,
and in the basket on her back
hours of hand picked ghost flowers.

Spectral white they shine
this rank and useless flora
fair as her face,
this rare flower
useless as her beautiful head.

Each one she'd lay out by the wall
till they would dry and twist and blacken
hoping for the one
the story tells
would keep its shape, its colour.

Might keep its wondrous form
the minstral sang
the petals never shrinking
its boggy stench instead
the breath of honeysuckle.

The one the old hag said
to place beneath his pillow
stab it with your childish hope
encircle with your feeble dreams
and walk the moon till morning...

So I stumble in the city's din
dreams wrapped around a senseless head
peer through doors
left partly closed
to catch a glimpse of morning.

But it's hard to squeeze the narrow gap
with this basket of ghost flowers
on my back
and so hard to watch each lonely flower
twisting black in the morning sun.