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.