The New Tenants
When we go the ivy will slam a fist through the double glazing, push its fingers in between the bricks. It will sling ropes around our walls and pull them down
like the landlord always feared. This time next year the whole house will be a hive of late September bees, susurrating like a broken TV. The flowerbeds are dead
and all that’s left are these, bunched, pale green, the end of the season. The honey they make is dark as the mornings, bitter as the frost that is waiting.