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Ladies of the tea urns and the sacramental gin, collecting for the roof fund because the rain keeps coming in. Ladies of the flower stall - forget me not, sweet peas - gliding like swans through parish rooms in Open Gardens Week. I think of you when the days draw out, when the rambling roses climb.
And blessed are the cake makers and those who set out chairs, and do for those who cannot do and remember them in their prayers. I was on the road to nowhere, I was not travelling light. Hopeless in my hopelessness, I must have been a sight. I think of you when the days draw out, when the rambling roses climb.