Floorboards creaked and heels clicked,
A slim finger runs over cracked spines.
Old paper and worn leather beckon
With promises of escapism within.
Scent of ink fills lungs, tempts to come
Closer, mix of amber and beeswax
Envelops further, hungry eyes dart
Around hunting for treasure.
Rows upon rows of books, lined up
Unique in size and faded colour.
Dust celebrates by waltzing in
The soft sunlight at each release.
Tarnished golden lettering glinting
In late afternoon lustre, by flickering
Firelight burning bright, sank into a
Chair, curled up like a satisfied cat.
Silence only broken by the ticking of
Time, the slow turning of stiff, brittle
Yellowed paper edged in brown,
And the occasional sigh.
