Poetry

Second-Hand Words

The ceiling was low and the corridors were made of books,

I ran my hand across the worn old spines that smelt of dust and words—

A small child lost in a labyrinth of gilt titles I couldn’t read,

But you read them for me with an antique voice

As cracked and creased as your paper skin.

I was so afraid of you, of your towering figure and giant hands

That scooped me out of the poetry section and sat me on your knee;

But then you’d turn to Byron and to Oscar,

To a world where pages became elegant women and great ships.

The pages faded like the memories,

And your spine began to bend like the books you sold.

Those strong hands became discarded paper, crumpled and useless.

But worse, far worse were the words Mr Oxley;

No walls, no ships, no battles or fair maidens,

Just the ruins. Just grunts and coughs like scraps

Of words read from decaying books.

                                             And finally, silence—

And one small shop on Broad Street that I still visit sometimes.

Loretta Hawtin