Since I wrote this poem, Mullein has been rediscovered. Instead of raiding the railway sidings, you can now buy this flower at garden centres.

WILD MULLEIN

Between the railway tracks the mullein stands,
A four-foot challenge to the gardener’s skill.
Spire of grey and yellow! What demands,
To lure you in, must flowerbeds fulfil?

Bees throng busily round the tempting spike,
Finding the scattered yellow among the grey,
Ignoring the shuffling goods train’s lazy swipe:
Tall candles for a drowsy summer’s day.

Colourscheme from nightmares! Purple or red
Ferocious stamens snarl in the yellow face;
Noxious fascination! Won’t you, instead
Of waste and shingle, flower in some cherished space?

This bristling purple and the gentle yellow
Deserve the richest compost, gardener’s pride:
A feature in the border; silver fellow
In dusky gloom, at soft astilbe’s side.

But surfeit of good compost makes you struggle,
Swamped by good things, too rich a diet here!
A Spartan life for you! Out on the shingle
Between the railway tracks you raise your spear.

Yet, still, among the lazy crazy paving,
Or where some trendy planner has spread the pebbles
For textured weed-control – such a saving
Of time and labour! – to stifle the gardener’s troubles,

On this new-fangled waste you lift your spear.
For nature, banished, you reclaim her sphere!