The bookshop

Walking on squeaky floorboards

Occupying space

Previously walked

At a nurtured pace.

 

How much time

Have people taken

To scan the walls

And see the books?

 

The smell of written beauty

In a time of pixels

Smell the pages

Of history.

 

Looking through

Piles of literary minds

Looking for that goldmine.

That transports and enthrals. 

 

That feels like substance

And shouts reality.

The holy pages

Carefully turned.

 

Where are these 

emporiums going?

These holy places

Of the word.

 

Taken to screens

That scream loss.

And leave textureless

Tiredness on broken eyes.

◄ Absurd

Tears ►

Comments

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Martin Elder

Sun 24th Mar 2019 14:42

I have to say I am with David in this. I have collection of books spilling out all over the place and love bookshops and libraries.
A great poem Phil. I can't help that the natural rhythm of this piece lends it self well to being the lyrics of a song.
Nice one

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Frances Macaulay Forde

Sun 24th Mar 2019 02:25

From one book-holding lover to another, thanks.

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