Marigold Mary

Marigold Mary, quite contrary
Her earthenware filled with bones
Rocking her chair on the terrace
As the aching old floorboard groans

Her legs are varicose webs
Her toenails gnarled and grey
A droplet hangs from her nostril
On a cold St Valentine's Day

Her shovel is tarnished with rust
On second thought maybe it's blood
Someone leans out of the cupboard
And falls with a lumbering thud

She rushes inside like a shot
And packs them back in with a kick
She bolts the cupboard securely
Fastening it with a stick

Out in the garden her roses
Feast on the rich fertile soil
Made from the remnants of those
Departed from this mortal coil