I remember the ivy
that grew in the side
of our first house

year by year, we
watched it shake off
its dead leaves and
tremble, naked through
the winter

in the Spring,
we'd take tea underneath
it, sharing the sugar spoon
like we shared sheets
and secrets

we watched it beat
again, like a heart
restarting, rising after
the fall

the wrought iron
chairs are rusted brown
now, and no-one sits
upon them

we're dead
but breathing,
blood pulsing on

and on

hearts beating backwards

and sugar spoons left
out for the
ants