A trip out to the Library was where it all began.
Imagination fired once more, mind running off again.
I looked at rows of books and piled some on the floor.
Hoped for peace and quiet, from ladies starting to jaw.
But I sat there and persisted, blocking out all other noise.
Although futile I resisted, children playing with the toys.
Wrapped up in a book or two, whilst they began to play.
There’s still a story to get lost, and while away the day.
Old books have been “Withdrawn” and are on sale by the door,
Pick a book not knowing, what it has in store.
Whether factual or a thriller, there’s so much there to choose.
A lover or a killer at only 20p, what have you got to lose?
Carpets torn and tattered, bookshelves empty and bare.
It’s hard to get excited, when there’s hardly any there.
But as you search among them and seize upon your choice,
You’ve finally seen one which matches your own voice.
There seems to be a moment, in which you dare to hope.
That when finding inspiration, there is always scope.
Take a moment get stuck in, spirited far away,
To other places far and wide, in corners of your day.
And as you are transported, off to another world,
You think of tales and they as they became unfurled.
What people are in there and their stories to be told,
Fact or fiction in this space, you’ll surely find pure gold.
This was inspired by my research trip to the library the other day. See In the name of Research, The Library and Books of Poetry Photos: Morguefile.com
byindiablue 