We walked a lane in Wales one morn in May
Our eyes took note of blooms on shrubs quite near.
We sniffed some sprigs near Hay on Wye that day,
Each bush had scents and smells both clear and dear.

A whiff was like old books on stands and racks,  
Each big thick tome could match that scent so strong.
And we had smelled a few in bins and stacks
The smell was just the same, we were not wrong.

In rooms where we would sit to read and play
The smell would be the same as by that lane.
A shame, it was, we lost them all one day.
To pack a ton of books gives aches and pain.

The things we share oft fit us like a glove, 
So new ones now are gifts we give with love.