Vine

I couldn’t resist him,

a climbing vine, Vitus Brant.

Strong smooth stems

the colour of expensive whisky,

palmate silky leaves

the slightest hint of musk.

I prepared the ground with care,

gave him everything he needed,

dark friable compost of plants gone by,

a generous offering of bone meal,

a mulch of cocoa shells.

I put him in the very best spot

in my tiny enclosed garden,

not too much sun,

not too much shade.

He loved me in return,

grew, climbed my trellis,

flowered, bore deep purple fruits.

I collected every one,

made violet jam and pungent wine.

The next year he grew beyond his space

climbed my scented rose.

I did not stop him,

thought it was worth the sacrifice.

Then he smothered 

my new spring flowers,

tulips and daffodils

lilies and Baby’s Breath.

Soon the garden was nothing but vine,

I no longer cared for wine and jam.

I bought a scythe.

Was more careful

next time in the garden centre.