The flowers of existence
Are the people who bloom here.
Once foreign they reside
Next door to us.
Some neighbours object to them
And it isn’t clear
Why they make so much resentful fuss!
Dark eyed children call “Hello!”
Their parents smile and greet.
Unlike us English, may it be said.
I know who I prefer to acknowledge
in the street.
And it isn’t Bill or Bert or Fred!
Sometimes from next door
A woman bearing food,
Or an invite to a wedding is proffered.
As neighbours the Bangladeshis are so good.
It’s delightful their immigration