The roses in the inner court
Are still in fragrant bloom,
Despite the fact the days are short
And overhung with gloom.
The monks have left the cloister now;
They’ve gone to say their prayers,
And builders greet with half a bow
When meeting on the stairs.
And I am merely passing through;
I’ve got somewhere to go.
There’s such a lot of work to do
Before it starts to snow.
I hear the door behind me close,
But not before I’ve picked a rose.
Photo by Hartmut Tobies on Unsplash
