Lifford Library – A poem

Lifford Library – A poem

Between the dusty shelves I trail my hand
The smell of old books soft, warm, beneath my palm
Their well-thumbed pages wrinkled, spotted,
Brown like an old man’s forearm

The quiet librarian soft steps her calling
Her tread upon the wooden floor faint butterfly wings
Her touch on the volumes of scholarly works
As loving as a mother to a much loved suckling

The atmosphere, a living thing – steals over me
A church stillness to sit and read

Voices of poets and writers from the annals of time
Urge me out of melancholy-
Respite if you must…but write, write.
My senses of purpose reaffirmed
I put pen to paper and begin … a poem
A memory
A day in Lifford Library as a child
Gemma Hill June 2018©