Social Climber, Strathern Road.
When the wisteria elected
to gobble your ceiling,
plagued by dense mist,
late that May, though partly complicit,
I recognised a party spirit.
Through your steepled roof
those purple bearded hang-me-downs
turn grey far too fast in this haar.
Never consider the building infirm,
fierce teeth have nibbled right in.
Thirteen whole years in wait
for only a shrivelled first bloom.
Now this. Under the slates,
something insists, thinks bad fairy-tales.
Wickedness drips Morris airspace.
A climbed attachment; a sinister grace,
now sneaking much faster
than any bean Jack ever plopped
in his lined-up Ski yoghurt pots.
Now you'll accept how it flirts
with this fog. Only today, that elderly beast
ate six entire yachts and tug.
By lunchtime, let us assume
Fife’s entire coast consumed.
That wisteria likes to play stereotypes,
but already, it's weather's wild bride.
Hack now, before the pretty one seeds.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Beth McDonough would
be pleased to hear them.