Ivy

Clinging low on the red brick garden wall
Living in the fissures licking mortar
Kissing tiny stones caressing the bricks

Is a small sinuous sensuous ivy
Springing back to play after winters
Coma, yearning like a youth for a touch.

As it ascends the wall, aching tendrils
Tease and stretch on slippery dancing limbs
Silk clad sliding across the crimson stage

With grace and purpose, harmoniously
Smothering its garden host, surmounting
In an ecstasy of green in high summer.

Peaking, then drying in the late autumn
Air, drying as to dust and blowing away
Leaving only bony cracking sticks
And desire’s roots under ripe black earth.

Tom Cullen