Vine
Two vines
Bigger than mine
Grew up one side
(I heard they prey on the young)
And turned
The Tew walls rotten.
As natural, you grew inside the air.
A vacancy spelt: no.
And a cold reluctance was replaced by
Two hands, to make a warmer place.
Imagine if the four of us met. Never quiver, Would your freckled lip. At least you said.
‘I don’t think the West was won’
was the general banded
speculation on the frontier.
But I knew the land lay unexplored
Lying faceless and beige.
A baron, cracked place
The sun had charred.
‘I suppose what was needed was the English rain’
I didn’t agree.
And this yellow shirt has too much colour.
Though it fits with such mustard smugness.
I look like a lemon though.
I wouldn’t be needed next week.
I’m not the first sight of dry land.
They’ll be someone else there to
Wax the china
Collect the isolated glasses.
You can lend my apron.
Not mine but –
The yellow one, I usually wear.