There is dust in the sunlight
slanting from the roof
and you are lost in Poetry,
or is it New Fiction?
We are all lost, here
Where the shelves lean
out to talk, nudge shoulders
and the books beckon.
The books smell
of people’s homes;
where they lay undisturbed
or hidden, or put out for effect.
They have come here to wait:
for you and your eyes.
For your hand – to feel
the ridge of a spine, feel
the raised lettering:
I am yours. Take me.
Let my words spill
before the pain of your eyes.
I will be in Poetry.
In a soft chair, waiting
Superb, John, a paen to the book, loved the ‘raised lettering’, and ‘that spill before the pain of your eyes’!
Cheers for that John….they were all over the place back in the day…even the small rural towns usually had one….trademe just isn’t quite the same.
Then you must get yourself to the old grain store book barn on State Highway One, between Christchurch and Ashburton. You will need a spare hour – or more. It was the inspiration (?) for this.
Nice – reminds me of those old secondhand book shops – hard pressed to find a decent one these days…or any at all.