Giant, rolling up your sleeves in the garden,
digging and weeding
Marigolds and dahlias in the flower borders,
Oh, they're right divas, so pretty!
A lovely woolen yarn your old cardy, cardigan.
From Scotland or Ireland, I believe.
Damson, mulberry, moss-coloured and bobbly,
Earthy like a bottle of Chivas whisky.
I'd rather walk in your rainy garden, big fella
Than be drenched in Italian sunshine
Florence or Naples, Lord, save us
My English blood couldn't stand the heat.
Marigolds have a real purpose at the border. Keeping the munchers out. Dahlias?
The English certainly do love their gardens and they are giants in them. But I don't understand the beautiful black woman without a cardigan? How does she relate to the poem except to get my attention to read it.
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The English certainly do love their gardens and they are giants in them. But I don't understand the beautiful black woman without a cardigan? How does she relate to the poem except to get my attention to read it.
Ron