Books
They stand, silently,
shoulder to shoulder, upright,
save one at the end, leather bound
who slouches, James Dean fashion.
Six with blue covers, gold blocked,
uniform, like Trumpton Firemen.
All wear their heart on their sleeve,
honest and trustworthy,
patiently waiting
to be picked by my mood.
A tome selected, opened,
the smell of old paper, as if
it had been holding its breath.
Whispered greetings as the leaves turn,
flickering candlelight warms the words,
and in my mind
they dance.
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