La Libreria (The Bookshop)

 

With no fear of embarrassment or exposure

I glided towards the portal of my desire

There in a warm dusty labyrinth I was home

surrounded by more paper than could be imagined

Shelves from floor to ceiling crammed with books

volumes neatly arranged some with frayed edges

Tables piled high with more of the same

as step ladders leaned against other tomes

Corridors, landings at different levels filled to capacity

with trillions of chapters, words and verse

The atmosphere was musty but rich in hospitality

I roamed from titles through to publishers

From the latest editions to those held together by age

my eyes could not grasp the sheer magnitude of it all

Fiction, non fiction, travel, history and the classics

all close together to keep good company

All stood upright in rows as soldiers on parade

some large and hefty others thin any puny

I needed respite, a place to sit and ponder

thousands of men and women had produced 

this mausoleum of literature

Many long since departed this mortal coil

others still with pen in hand seeking inspiration

I could live here I thought as my gaze wandered

a stillness, a silence held all in its power

The shop had a reverence all of its own

a sanctuary for the enquiring mind and the learned

Second hand and new sharing a common home

a safe place far removed from the world outside

I was somewhere in which to be lost

to be embraced and to receive a special grace

If these were the end product of hard work

where were the many drafts and empty ink wells

Old typewriters, word processors and computers

had laboured to yield such knowledge

People wrote and people read

this place was akin to a garden shed,  a storehouse

One purpose was embedded in this esteemed place

for the writer to write for many to read

Tempus fugit, as I was startled by the sound of a cash register

Reluctant to leave I made a personal farewell

as I stroked a leather bound copy of

The Writer´s Manual