Dusty Old Books
A book that I plucked
from an antiquity of books
filled my nostrils
with a smell that I will always know
and always love.
This love cannot be explained,
but neither could any indifference.
At the back of the hall,
distant from and opposite to
the comical speaker's rostrum,
behind rows of chairs filled
with the attentive and the obliged
and the hands raised in angst
to express righteousness
and cleverness
(look at me ! hear me !),
I, too, would be righteous
and clever some day
(wasn't that clever ?),
but those dusty old books !
And who could forget God's hand ?
It thrust earthword,
its sword gleamed
a split second before cleaving
a wicked man in two,
skull to groin,
a dusty old book
among dusty old books,
explored with petrified daring
by fingers so tiny they're forgotten.
A platoon of books competing,
all to be explored in turn,
some more readily than others,
all old, all dusty, all so rich in scent,
none to be forgotten,
never to be forgotten.
5th July 2020
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