The Folly and The Ivy (I.P.)

It is Monday evening; late autumn.
Crows cajole amidst the all-but burning
oak trees. A field away, ivy
fingers the folly.

Comes shuffling by...old Ned,
plastic bags in tow; kicks open the door –
mud under foot. Slips on the step
and so the ivy creeps on.

Out cold as his head hits the floor...
How quickly ivy takes hold! A vole
navigates the highways and the byways
of his Armani thrift-shop raincoat,
and the folly whispers, ‘Fool’.

A spider trawls the forest of his beard;
a pipistrelle flits in and out the eves,
and a gaping roof yawns its sorrow;
sends down dregs of yesterday’s rain
to wash the bloodied neck, and the folly
hold its tongue.

His torso stiffens as a sickle moon rises,
shredding scudding streaks of stratus nimbus.
At his side, slivers of glass wink, benignly;
blinded eyes look down from the walls –
breathe cold-comfort on his body,
and the coroner concludes, ‘Death
by strangulation’.

It is Monday evening; late autumn.
Crows cajole amidst the all-but burning
oak trees. A field away, ivy
fingers the folly.