Bookcase

I love the quiet hum of a bookcase

Full of thinking books;

Seeing their backs I long to see their faces,

Take them to my secret nook…

There I’ll listen to their endless monologue,

They’ll root me here, transport me there…

I’ll see their sun, their stars, their fog,

I’ll love their loving, follow their prayers…

Like these old family houses,

Books are full of dust, echoes and memories,

And perhaps a ghost or two…

They probably have their hidden mouse,

Caught between the lines, the chaos and the debris…

And maybe a dragon too!

So let me look at you, my beautiful friend,

Let me pat your oaken sides and stroke your leathery back;

I’ll see that your stories never end,

That you sleepstand and daydream and of food for thought never lack.