Sensuous vines,
Braiding their way up the wall,
Grey as the pebbles behind them.
Writhing in place,
Slithering one over the other
Slender passionate pythons
Perfectly still, motionless,
As if carved in stone.
Yet: high above them, at the top
Of the wall, the wildness of their
Living ardour spills out
In the form of frothy clouds of
small mauve stars.
Tomorrow, I will photograph
Scores of them lying on the flagstones
Below, faded and spent, yet
Still somehow twinkling.