Madam Buddleia, remember her?
Summer’s wasteland tart
all headiness and perfumed purple
shameless in her husseying
promiscuous with bees –
the tongue-tip tricks she turned –
those eager butterflies…
Autumn draggles her – nothing left
to flaunt but a gale’s toss
of silver petticoats. She’s bowed
stick-legged, spindly, no more
hey buzzy-boy, you like a lick o’ nectar
down behind this rubble stack
this street corner crack.
Now she’s banking what she made –
seeding ditches, gutters, playgrounds
anywhere will do – alleyway endowments
for the future; blowsy trouper
waves her children off
to populate the railway tracks
like vagrants, miles out of town.