Buddleia at Clapham Junction.
Halted by a signal this August day
The musty window’s grubby pane uncovers
A belvedere of rust and aggregate
Industrial clutter and railway scrap
My train staggers forward in nervous jolts
And I begin to see the buddleia.
By corrugated shack and rust rubbed track
Bush after bush tucked in violet scrub
Thriving on clinker. No gardeners fuss here,
Level tilth or feed fat chrysanthemums.
All the stuttering way to Queenstown Road
These urchins shrug off litter and drill root
Through concrete; smother grey railings in green.
Each shrub stitches its own purple patch,
Learns the give and shove of trackside air.
As barging wagons stir drunken flowers,
They duck and sway and whip like prize fighters
Suck breath from vicious eddies that leave them
Thrashing with life in the commuters’ wake.