A Library

 

A Victorian gothic structure of little renown.

It stands in isolation as a chapel does for prayer.

Yet within its walls and behind its doors.

There is an inner sanctum, a seat of learning.

A treasure trove of knowledge, a place of study.

Where those with a thirst for an intellect do inhabit.

Men and women, even the very young.

All join in this citadel of learning and wisdom.

Where minds are sharpened to the finest point.

Where latent talents take root and research is initiated.

A mysterious interior of ordered avenues.

All with high shelves some with embossed tomes.

Where fiction and non fiction are neatly segregated.

A multitude of table lamps sit on an array of tables.

Where silence is golden and mandatory.

Zealously guarded and regularly patrolled.

By two or three ladies with their hair in buns.

They stop and point with stern authority.

At the familiar inscription on each wall

SILENCE

Voices are seldom heard, whispers are permissable.

Books on trolleys are gently wheeled to their expectant shelves.

Other books are date stamped 'out' with a penalty warning.

As others are returned having been read and digested.

Anthony Trollope gazes across at Enid Blyton.

Shakespeare smiles warmly toward Agatha Christie.

Algebra winks at a flamboyant atlas.

And all this in a place of reverence.

Where etiquette is observed by all.

A hidden gem, a library,

The home of literature and the abode of books.