The Ivy House

 
The ivy crawls up the crumbling wall
The twisted oak stands outside so tall
As twilight descends hear the owl call
Chimney smoke hovers, a greyish pall.

In a top floor window is a lonely light
It’s from a candle so it’s not so bright
By its orange glow a man starts to write
Now the moon rises so cold, so white.

The quill scratches across the yellowing page
Words of wisdom from this scholarly sage
His words spread like some inky phage*
The edge of the paper becomes their cage.

Outside the house remains deathly still
So quiet you can hear the old man’s quill
The air is now crisp and carries a chill
Still the man writes with speed and skill.

The small fire is now dying in the grate
Dim light reflecting off his balding pate
He writes still faster, this cannot wait
The dark closes in as the hour is late.

The dying candle gives off a burnt scent
Over his page the man is closely bent
He finishes as his last fading breath is spent
The old scholar’s last will and testament.

For weeks his body no-one will discover
His decaying corpse no-one will uncover
His cadaver no-one will want to recover
No friend, no family, no long lost lover.

(*Note: A phage is a virus that reproduces itself in bacteria.)
©05/01/13