Pink pearls of seed upon the lawn
From whom an ivy tree might form.
That, hung outside a country inn
Brought promise of what lay within.
An ivy-clad ruin in Victorian times
Inspired the would-be poet’s rhyme.
White owls upon your berries fed
A red dye from your sores once bled.
Whose flowers, like stardust fireworks
Attract the bees to linger there…
Who flit, from clover to buttercup
That all might of Life’s nectar sup.