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

Before the Summer Concert

They storm the folding chairs early, in the late
Afternoon. Wearing black dresses and white vests
They clutch black cases to their breasts.
An orchestra gathers to play a date.
They unpack the instruments and fiddle
With sheet music, say hello, and drink coffee
Read the papers, eat chocolates and toffee
Horns honk, The geese fly to the middle.

Of the lake. While the trombones and trumpets
Argue the key, the woodwinds whistle,and
Strings moan and sigh. People tote bread and wine
In picnic baskets and spread their blankets.
Up on the grandstand the baton in hand
A down stroke and the sounds Intertwine.

Tom Cullen