BUDDLEIA


It’s hot and the buddleia’s out,
flourishing in waste ground,
along the railway embankments.
Mauve and that rarer dark purple.

It waves in the wind like penises,
if penises were made of tiny flowers,
if they waved in the wind.

I remember my mother in the back garden,
sniffing the buddleia, exclaiming.
I was five at most, but I felt embarrassed.

Now I reach for the buddleia and draw it to my nose.



• Frances Gapper writes very short stories and poems.