Ivy’s deference and not
Ivy thrives
despite dependency.
It hangs on, has its other day.
Ivy does not press its case.
Its patient face is no surprise.
It does not draw attention to itself.
Its business is in secretive delight.
It’s second violin to any other instrument.
It clings with tendril anchor feet establishing a base.
As if from nothing, when the time is right
its berries burst like fronds of aubergine-dark rain,
September elder, glossy, orderly and plump,
its umbel firework pulses bursting to be seen.
It later desiccates, but not
from tiredness, resolved maturity
frayed hemp strands on the vine.
Ivy’s complexity is fabulous.
Self-effacement underlining paradox,
write-in evergreen of posts,
single oaks with one bare fractured branch
in need of first response,
shipwrecked in a roadside hedge,
whitewashed walls
which failed to wash behind their ears,
and then turned flaky sour
anything upstanding marginal.
Ivy’s deference,
harm-free cohabiting,
which burgeons bright, as self-defence.
J.P. Lancaster was born in Cardiff and brought up in Barry, Vale of Glamorgan. He was educated at St John’s College, Oxford, which came as a shock. He has taught in various countries.