An image like a vine
carries negativity
from my earth to sky
Rooting me to spot
the greenfly of hope die there
and fall off in clumps
The sound of calling
cancels growth of emotion
empathy regained
I trot to dinner
where the fruits of our labours
drown us in a haze
Falling and climbing
Without making a sound shoots
carry on the breeze
The vine is like that
too using imagery of
amphora to gain
A foothold places
It has never ever been.
Conversation grows
and turns this way then
that like a drunken’s pencil
writes a note to God
‘I love the vine wine,
women and song, family
of grapes such as we
should never be CRUSHED!!
As the bottle falls and SMASHED!!
I fall to the floor
With a groan, Wasted
smashed open like a grape; wine
puddles at my feet
Bacchus! You bastard!
That was a terrible waste…
Was that meant to be?
I stagger to my
feet looking for a seat, a
drink of the vine wine
to reassure me
Everything is alright. I
stagger outside and
See the Vines stretch a-
way and that feeling comes back
You’re nowt but a hack!!
And I see inside
nothing so grand as the vines
or fruitful or wise
Then I hear a voice
‘Andrew, come back inside!’ So
go pretend I’m vine.
