The creeper-choked embankment wall that looms,
most fitting for a dream or fairy tale,
twenty feet high at the bottom of the garden
this summer's burning with convolvulus
in great white blotches like magnesium flares
that creep across the gap and through next door's
wilderness, open to the embankment foot,
with pincer movement towards my planted borders
where, having shortly pitched their silk pavilions,
they trumpet victory - until I rise
to put down such triumphal provocation.
Tough strings are tangled up with flowers and bushes
but, pulled in handfuls, come at last unravelled
with all the incandescent bells attached
that find a common grave inside the bin.
Now, sweaty, scratched and raw with nettle-stings,
I see the enemy, still undefeated,
mock my discomfort from his high defences.
That glowing tapestry of white on green
proclaims the power of life still rampant there.
© Brian Fewster,
Published in Envoi 140, Spring 2005
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