‘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.