You could not twist the vine to your liking,
That vine that climbed the wall beside your window;
Those mottled green leaves, ever so striking,
Bearing sparse blossoms of pale gaunt yellow.
How it clung to your glass always amazed you,
Yet, never allowed it to block out your sun,
You mangled its verdance so that it grew
At the edge of the pane, where it blocked none.
Time after time as you gazed on the world
A sprig or a spray seemed to pop in your way,
A green leafy flag so brazen, unfurled,
Not long to blemish—or darken your day…
Stands now a lone gravestone, weathered with time,
Grey faded etchings, now covered in vine.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.