The convolvulus wants it all

to have, to own, entwine, consume

nothing too large or small.

Condemned to famine, it chases banquets.

If possible it would devour

You.

It will never be full.

 

The ivy, too, must have.

It wants endlessly,

bewitched by what it sees.

It whispers in the ear,

sucks emotion dry,

its tentacles contaminate.

It will not be content.

 

The hawthorn, tearing its friends

is defeated, disappointed

but the problem lies not in itself,

there is a fault, a flaw, it refuses

the gift of tranquility.

Another must be blamed and struck.

It will not be benign.

 

The rambling rose,

short cut, dead end, bottomless pit,

turning trust to dust,

insatiable maw, fantasising shape-shifter,

bemusing its perfumed slaves.

It will not be restrained. 

 

Moss, molasses of the mind.

Cancerous, invasive, subversive mange,

the will blearing, smearing, melting,

soggy puddle dissolving.

For fear or fat it fails to care,

It will not be troubled.

 

The nettle, useless shade-living weed

surrenders the will to darkness

and says there is no Spring,

believe only in Winter.

How can a mood be sin,

but how now if gloom be a choice?

It refuses the gift of resilience.

It must be grasped.

 

The sequoia, shallow-rooted giant, bestriding all,

showering vile leaves, tainted compost

on struggling life beneath.

Web-centre spider.

Touch a man here,

You turn him killer.

It will not be brought low or find grace.

 

The seven are serious.

They will not dance or laugh,

they cannot whistle or wink,

or frolic, except to grimly

play out their game.

We are their game.

They are the maggot in our apple,

spoiling the sweetness of life.

They are the seven.