The books all stood there silently
In a mournful prayer
As they were all lifted
Letter by letter
Into card board boxes.

The shelves were pulled down
And lined up in the middle
Of the great hall
Like a huge bonfire
Before the windows
Were all kicked out
Which had a feeling of
Ghosts tramped over by time.

Floors crumbled into
Large chunks of rubble
As sledgehammers
Slicked them inside out
Never to rise again
From the ashes
With the grace of a phoenix.

Staff were shifted
From building to building
Like nomads
But all will tell
Their own stories
Of the first time
They all went there
Whether it was with
Their parents
Or even their friends.

All will talk in
The art of great storytellers
In time
To come off the lifts
That was always
Breaking down
With a good natured humour
And the literature section
On the 4th floor
Which people claimed
Reminded them of
A small jungle of books.

All will walk away
And remember their
Last walk down the stairs
As they watch the books
Lifted out in boxes
And then placed in cellars
Never to be seen for years
Unless your name
Was Doctor Who.

Except their memories
Which are held like
A knife to their throat
And the whisper
Of the building
In the air,
We’ll meet again.

We’ll meet again.

We’ll meet again.