Saturday 14 September 2013

IVY:



With iced cold fingers, softly & slowly creeping,
Caressing old cold stones, of grey water seeping,
Across the ancient tombs of old widows weeping,
Where deep beneath, the long-dead lie sleeping,
Ivy creepingly slides, over sweet cherubs peeping.

Verdant, rampant, kissing moistly & mossy stoned,
Running over graves, of the lost departed & boned,
Where beneath full moon, the old bat sadly moaned,
Where winter winds kissed the old yew, who groaned,
Ivy only dares, where old sins are pardoned & atoned.

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