Ivydale Road

The ivy grew on his heart;
I weeded it from mine.

The ivy grew on his heart,
while mine became sublime.

Our ivy stems aren’t green
but red,
and murderous –
sick in the head!

Their roots are loose
but wound-up, too.
They box each other –
earth their zoo.

To tame them
a back-breaking task
(for light-weight fists
and nervous hearts),

but for the keeper
of their secret,
doors they open.
Love no deeper.




Tell me about fiction.
Tell me all you know.
My ears will gently listen
to my mind, slow to compose.

Your night-tale is what lifts me,
scraps the Ts
and reasons with me,

shifting sand
turns to uncover
a mind so strong;
its owner’s mother.