Friday, February 24, 2006

Second Version

“Who Lives There…?”

A large White-fronted house,
Gravel drive and crocuses
On the lawn – no wonder
I was nervous when you said,
In answer to my question ,
“Let’s go inside and have a look!”
Without a moment’s pause
You walked up to the great door,
Pushed it open, led me in
Through a hall where no-one
Stopped us, past the readers
At the shiny tables and the high
White shelves of books, the undisturbed
Uncluttered world of books
Returned and borrowed. You took me in

To the Library that still
Seemed a private residence – I followed,
And returned again through
Season’s pendulum…. in winter,
In the crisp blue air when snow
Through floor-to-ceiling windows
Covered the sloping garden to the Mole;
To Poetry, winter-warm in orange
Grey and green, with ghosts
Of the danger-driven, of global war
And paranormal loves.

I found the forms of lives
Florescences, the print that danced
On a white page
Like twigs or buds with gloves of snow:
Each individual crystalline shape
Unique and waiting in a private place
You showed me, shared
When you boldly pushed the door.


1 comment:

Plutarch said...

I like this very much. Not just the "gloves of snow", excellent image, but the way you have explored the process of going through a door and finding a library.