Vines

When you were still a young man and I was
a child, your house was grand with
its immaculate walls and tall white pillars; they appeared
thicker in the white paint. I would see your garden
flowers and the carrot tops, green and
curly beside the raspberry bush  
full of juice (that stained my lips). You were
willing to donate a bucket, or two
as long as I brought you a piece of the pie
and helped you chop the vines that climbed your house;
they were always so persistent and you often said
they would be the death of you.

As I pass your house, now trembling with age,
its walls and pillars are green, the garden
overruled; the preacher said it was here that they found
you – dead with the shears still in one hand.








©Shelley Marie 2012