The Library by Gillian Telford

You grew into yourself
knowing little about life
except through books.

Each leaf-vein, snake-skin, thumbprint
wrought second hand-
experience shaped forever, tacked

together, then tucked
into the bodice of your heart.
So many words helped you to grieve

or offered balm when all seemed undone.
See how you’re there already,
soothed by the glimmer of burnished gold,

the incense swinging in medieval
vaults; no safer place to go
when the light grows darker, but

back to the dense and thoughtful page.
Time is a twister, throws up
days when life seems skewed.

Again you reach out, search
for meaning to centre your world-
always, a book at hand.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s