You could not twist the vine to your liking,
That vine that grew up the wall by your window;
Those mottled green leaves, ever so striking,
As were sparse blossoms of pallid gaunt yellow.
How it clung to the glass always amazed you,
Yet, never allowing to block out your sun,
You mangled its verdance so that it grew
At the edge of the glass, where it blocked none.
Time after time as you gazed on the world
A sprig or a sprag 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.