Sometimes a Rose
Where this lane bends
then dips and turns again,
a stream runs. It has a name
I usually forget. Yet
when I come upon it
it is always the same; there
is a scent in it, summer
or winter, no matter. The dip
-because the air lingers there,
I suppose- harbours a
scented stillness as though it remembers
honeysuckle and hay and sometimes
a rose.