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of Christopher Whitby |
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Bookmark
After the funeral my brother said, 'I'll sort the books.' I wondered why. Suppose Our mother wanted them untouched – all those Raw memories bound up in what he'd read. So later I was quite relieved to see Most shelves still full. The boxes in the hall Contained 'his other wives': the sea in all Its moods and sailing ships. No use to me, And yet I took what I had given. Then Tucked inside an Alexander Kent I saw The bookmark. Was this at his bedside when He at last conceded he would read no more? They float now by my bed. I've not yet dared To read his last words in that love we shared. |
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2006
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| Slightly Foxed Sigs B5r to C4v have not been Cut, which makes me wonder quite what I should Do. What would the library say if I were seen To take a knife– consider also what would Be their view if that same knife should then turn out To be not sharp enough and the pages tore Even just a teensy bit. Would someone shout At me in all this rustling quietness, or Simply fix me with a stare, then lean down for A word? 'Your ticket, Sir, if you don't mind, And now let me escort you to the door. You seem unmindful of the rules you signed.' Of course, I'll end up doing what is right, No matter what adventure seems in sight. |
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2006
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| Copyright | ||