Flowering Currant

Into this city room your pungent scent
has brought the ghosts of the shy, forgotten springs,
dim April dusks, that linger still and make
the Daffodils dance wanly in their rings.
You are Aladdin's lamp, for when I rub
your wrinkled leaves, and press them to my face,
here is another spell, the spring has gone
and candle-light has come to take its place.
A child sits up in bed, the curtain shakes
while down the chimney roars the winter storm;
someone comes in and brings black-currant tea—
The world has grown sweet scented, safe and warm.