My new book, pristine pages, crisp, sharp
& white,
Utopia to the senses, touch, smell &
following sight,
Starched with spider-print of ink, in
insect-leg black,
Between my eager fingers, now nothing will
I lack.
Perfumed with old woody hearts, of dead
hewn trees,
Thumbed adventures of love & of pirates
on their seas,
Creased, paper romance, heroes & history
of past sagas,
Of Druid, beast & Zulu warriors, facing
fist-closed laagers.
Used pages dripped & stained, with old coffee,
tea & tears,
Wine smudged edges, re-read, throughout my long
lived years,
Underlined upon old sheets, all those special
heart-kept words,
So they can´t fly away from memory, like naughty
errant birds.
Pages soft & floppy now, signed with thumb,
sweat & dirty sod,
Fragile & sepia, crumpled & bent, with
my sleepy-lidded nods,
Life of ancient pages lived, absorbed, devoured
& truly loved,
No longer pristine, but nor upon shelf, forgotten
& sadly shoved.
No comments:
Post a Comment