Those tiny flowers peeping through the wooden slats of the gate remind me of ragworts and Anne Stevenson’s beautiful poem…
They won’t let railways alone, those yellow flowers.
They are that remorseless joy of deteliction
darkest banks exhale like vivid breath
as bricks divide to let them root between.
How every falling place concots their smile,
taking what’s left and making a song of it.
Anne Stevenson (b. 1933)
Posted for the Mundane Monday Challenge.