Ivy vines climb up my willow legs, 
wrapping, creeping, crawling, inching 
closer. I feel the twisting green leafy flesh 
embrace me as you, here at my feet. 
My branches bow to the sight of you. 

I surrender to the pleasure 
tickling my thighs as you grow to the sun 
mirrored on my face, brushing across 
my stomach, blessing my birth scar 
and scarcely stroking my swelling breasts. 
Upwards the flow of quickening growth 
distracts me from the destination, until too late 

the vines spin rapidly ‘round my throat 
and tighten. Gasping, I pull and pry, 
but your grip is strong, and it takes all the fight 
of my soul to rip you apart and leave you 
in shatters on the trampled delta shore, 
adorning the lifeboat wrecked in the shallows. 

Exhausted, I weep and limp away, 
barely able to stand. I collapse 
in softer grass and rain my blood 
tinged tears onto Persephone’s roof, 
willing one to drip deep into her domain. 

A bluebell may bloom in answer 
to promise peace, constancy, a poppy 
covered mound where your grave once lay. 

One day I may visit, run my hands over the buds, 
sigh serenely with fleeting fondness 
for the thrill my sun-touched branches 
brought your trickled-down photosynthesis, 
knowing another tree awaited me.