Ragwort and mallow, toadflax and willow-herb
Trick out the waste-ground patchwork that I thread
To no end, not for delight, but with a passion
Such as they feel who are obsessed with death –
Though this is not death. I linger here
Where rot assumes these terrace-house cadavers,
And brick-rubble, riven paving-slabs, puddled ruts
Are cordoned off by bindweed tapestries
On looms of fence-wire. One might think neglect
Cultivates that for which it has made way –
The minor glories idleness in passing
Names ‘wallflower’, ‘dog rose’, maybe ‘traveller’s joy’.