The Vampire's Vine

Grown on a grave forgotten
creeping tendrils unobserved
buds like palid shell-less eggs
abandoned by some bird

Among the weeds they quietly swell
draw sustenance from where
old bones lie sleeping — biding time
decay pollutes night air

Shadows loiter — watch and wait
behind slow-crumbling stones
a rambling breeze in fits and starts
emits thin ragged moans

As if on cue the clouds draw back
reveal a haggard moon
that sends a jagged sword of light
where ghostly buds festoon

one sunken plot so long ignored
outside the churchyard wall
no cross to indicate the spot
name lost beyond recall

Yet thick with stems and leaves that weave
a mat of sickly green
and timed to break the witching hour
those buds bulge pale between

The moment the church clock strikes twelve
long notes to wake the dead
each bud unfurls and lifts up high
its hungry florid head

Corpse-white petals smooth as skin
gape widely to expose
stamens sharpened and arranged
as teeth in vicious rows

Their ghastly scent like putrid flesh
attracts nocturnal things —
huge bumbling moths in drunken thrall
swoop blind on urgent wings

Bats and nightbirds follow suit
small rodents climb and sink
into those deadly blood-streaked blooms
that clam up tight then drink

their victims dry ’til lifeless husks
of fur or feather-bound
are flung like sacrificial cups
all scattered on the ground

While six feet down red roots drip-feed
a vampire’s quenchless thirst
until Dawn withers back the vine —
each blackened flower cursed

Show over for another year
the dormant plant’s unseen
until October casts its spell
the night of Halloween