The Ivy House

First the ivy climbs through the vent
Of the deserted house's ground floor,
After spying for a while
It starts it's own slow tour.


Slowly, ever slowly,
It spreads like a disease.
Up the walls, over the floor,
Any way it is pleased.


Snaking through the door,
Hanging from the light.
If someone were to walk in there,
They would see a growing sight.


leaping up the stairs,
Holding on to the rail,
Slowly pulling the wood apart
Separating oak from nail.


Finaly on the landing,
Ivy is on the top floor.
Making up it's wooden mind
It goes through the bathroom door.


After a year or two
The house is barely there
And inside that lush dark green
With mice the house is shared.