Books

There is I think somewhere
A bookshop
Perfect in everyway
Labyrinthine
And I will roam for hours
Searching every shelf
Absolutely alone
Except for an old friend
Who I did not expect to meet

No screaming children here
Nor overpriced coffee
Just the books
And me

Up winding stairs to cavernous lofts
With arched windows
Warmed by August sun
Gaze down upon the muted hustle of the narrow street
So far away

There on dusty shelf
Lies a book
That I loved in my youth
Untouched in years
A previous owner’s name stencilled to the cover
But mine now

Further through musty corridor
Faded maps hanging between the shelves
In this uncharted territory
Authors I have never heard of
Will never remember again
Time slows

Or perhaps speeds
One smile and the bell rings
As I return to the reality
The flood of light and sound
Of a summer afternoon