The Lodging House Fuchsias
Mrs Master’s fuchsias hung
Higher and broader and brightly swung
Bell-like, more and more
Over the narrow garden path,
Giving the passer-by a sprinkle bath
In the morning
She put up with their pushful ways
And made us tenderly lift their sprays,
Going to her door:
But when her funeral had to pass
They cut back all the flowery mass
In the morning.
I've joined Mary McCallum's Tuesday Poem group. This is my first entry.
Off the Shelf
11 hours ago