They Will Forgive Them Everything

They will forgive them everything,
remembering the taste of iron rot,
arms arched over the bonnet,
defensively. Dandelions growing

out of petrol caps telling us
that nothing so sculptured
would ever come of that.
Bulbs’ fangs puncture the tires,

thread veins, coil round the wipers
asphyxiating the windscreen
as if this browning Volts Wagon
had never belonged to asphalt.

They knew, always had, that
it would come back, shapeless,
battered. Morning glory trumpeting
its return. They mock its solubility,

dissolving our fickle inventions.
Brambles masking the outdoor toilet
to make it seem that we were always
civilised, always delicate, refined.

They even hid, with thorns
the oafish snores, years of dribble,
of a comatose princess who was only
ladylike when she was flat, asleep.