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?
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