My room with a view

I sleep downstairs. My french windows open on to a neglected court yard with stone slabs embroidered with lichen and moss.
The courtyard walls would have collapsed if it wasn't for the vine. She's sewn them up and enslaved them. She makes me uneasy when her thin limbs flutter and grasp blindly at the air.
We are isolated here.
No houses nearby. We are alone and the sky is big. Just for me and the vine.
Above us geese groan, 'Fly, fly, fly.' Because they must. An African sun hauls them in.
I wonder, if I sat on the oak seat under the wall, would I be Odysseus to this silent siren?
Would she curl bracelets round my wrists and sweetly bind me to her?
I could just sit. My skin turn to pale marble and my heart to rock.
Green fingers stroke my neck and tighten, tighten, tighten until the vine and I are one.

I think I've got a thing about vines.