Library

 

‘The word itself is a musical sound.’ – Pierre Bernac. 

 

They were stacked in

Rows, reverent, silent

With history, with sounds

And descriptions, with souls

And facts and lies.

 

They come alive

If you see them dancing

Before your eyes, skittering

Across the page, spinning

In black and white.

 

They will reach where

Others cannot, inside –

Deep and dark, igniting

A lost spark; leaving you

Icy and hot.

 

They smell of centuries

Of dust, of fingerprints

And aisle lust, hushed

Whispers, peering eyes;

Quiet study, imaginary reveries.

© Liz Ward, 2010.

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