The Climbing Toadflax

In red brick terrace yards, in spring, we sprawl,
Orbicular leaves form a vivid green swathe
Across the rain dampened concrete, we bathe,
Our roots are shallow, but steadfast to the walls.
In summer, we thrive, amid the suns rays,
We litter each inch with zygomorphic bloom,
While yardowners try to suppress us with broom,
But yet we pebbledash in purple the shade.
Retreat in the autumn does not spell us doom,
In winter we shrink but stay close in the cold,
No frost, no drought, nor wind can make us fold,
As we wait for the spring, and sweet summer's swoon.
    For what is mightier, than trees tall and old,
         If not the toadflax, which lines every road?

How the world should be

This is how the world should be
I walked into a shop, and the owner smiled at me.
And as I breached the boundary, she beamed,
The broadest smile, and in she drew me.

I stood, engaged, in a half hour discussion,
At first a bit shocked, a minor concussion.
It's rare in this world that someone stops to chat,
In inner city stores conversation truly lacks.

It took me aback, but stayed I did,
I listened to tales of when recession hit.
No work for a Masters in Plymouth, no more,
But learning to sew made her dreams, for sure.

She wore a tape-measure 'round her neck,
And joyfully weaved her tale in my head.
Her husband a doctor, no jobs on the roster,
So she opened a shop, and never has it cost her.

She's happy, she's glad, she'll never be sad,
She follows her passion and her passion flows back.
And how I admired the bags on the rack,
The dresses, the jewellery, and mostly, the chat.