‘Passion-Flower at the Gate’

A flower on a vine sighs over the cast-iron gate

And spills some dust of life, of faeries,

Like tears trickle down drawn-up knees,

Onto a rain-rusted lock.

The flower is white and frayed, she is hungry,

And dying, and hopeful.

Some nights I remember eating chilis and figs and almonds,

Or tasting the sweat and spit and skin

Of another time;

I’ve heard a dollop of brightness under the tongue

Colours midnight kinder

Than any demanding dawn.

A vine-rottened grape sallows,

Sickly, shrivelled, soured and wasted,

As do the breasts of a maiden

When deflated of pride and will and faith,

And condoled with wine.

He wraps around me like vines of ivy

That hug and condole a grave and its tombstone,

No longer alone, but cold.

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