When it stops hurting look again
and stop admonishing that
honeysuckle for everything:
It married us while it could;
with plaited stems and writhing root
Tatty leaves and flowers blasted
with aphid honey-spit, not nectar.
It was bound to fail:
Suppressed pain pollinated it;
tenacity refined to tender tendril.
Night distils for moth and nightjar,
over the broken lintel.
published in Obsessed By Pipework, May 2016