In my parents’ house there were no books,

the shelves held only food and drink

and sometimes not so much of that.

My father read the Daily Mirror,

starting in the sports section then

wrestling with quick crossword clues.

 

The TV was our central fixture,

essential as the electric fire

we gathered round to watch light

entertainment and soap operas,

a magnet holding us

spellbound in its orbit.

 

At 17 I broke free of it –

a friend loaned me a copy

of Huxley’s Brave New World -

and became a regular inhabitant

at our local library,

whose only claim to fame

was to have been burnt down

by suffragettes.

My father was no feminist

but he’d have applauded the outcome.

 

Reading books was a waste of time,

especially for the working man,

libraries were the domain

of the middle classes.

It was books that gave me fancy ideas,

long hair and outlandish clothing.

 

In later years he didn’t visit much,

discomfited by our vegan diet,

the smoking ban and the walls

stacked with nearly a thousand volumes.

When he died we found him sitting

in his usual chair before the fire,

the telly tuned to ITV, a pen

and an unfinished crossword

resting in his lap.