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.