paying for its lust

for the bricks turned to dust

a vine was brought down.

severed low; the top half browned, and died

we pulled it from the wall

lawn-mowered half the leafy carcass

dragged the other half to a funeral pyre.

I recall one tender limb was encroaching on my bedroom

spiny green fingers playing a patient game with the curtains

it’s penitent now, much nearer the ground

© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014