Tag Archives: books

Leather Bound

Richard Booth's bookshop
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Richard Booth’s Bookshop in Hay
 

We met on a shelf
between RS and Hughes,
I liked your shoes but later
found they were boots,
their butterscotch
tan leather cuffs
discreetly concealed
beneath wintered denim.
 

Smooth, easily removed,
they sat obediently
in right angled hush
at the foot of our borrowed bed,
their suppleness echoed
in the soft scuff of your hands
as you deciphered the Braille
of my unravelling spine.
 
 

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Helios and other bedfellows

bed3
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We wake to sunshine;
 

not the bland lemony light
that fingers blonde venetians,
 

but a fizzing mirrorball,
blistering
between linens,
 

livid,
and white to the touch.
 

Later,
 

limbs smouldering
in the ruck of scorched sheets,
 

fingertips
trace vellum palms,
 

sifting
 

for the tender balm
of borrowed verse.
 
 

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Safe


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Sly, brittle slice blinks incessantly;
would-be despot descendant of Kutubiyyin,
its faux leather sheath sticky in the palms.
 

Spineless, synthetic, its flickering backlit,
tick-inducing, fake flaxen pages,
a shallow, kindled substitute
 

for lutescent vellum, letterpressed
to breast in the smooth creamy wash
of an elegant anglepoise lamp.
 

Acid leaks, yet beautifully bound, it
sits serene on the solid beech shelf,
just out of reach; protected.
 
 

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Bound

 

 

The house is filled with books that lay unread
Moroccan leather bindings thick with dust,

for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.


These first editions steeped in printer’s lead
that should be treasured, cherished but it’s just
the house is filled with books that lay unread.


These shelves where clichéd angels dare not tread,
where fact and fiction both are left to rust,
for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.


Between the leaves of romance, crisp and dead,
amid the thrillers, mysteries and lust,
the house is filled with books that lay unread.


Compressed, controlled, contained, so word can’t spread,
where spineless villains creep there breeds mistrust,
for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.


Deep paper cuts where crimson ink has bled
across the creamy pages, once robust,
the house is filled with books that lay unread
for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.

 

 

 

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at the wonderful One Stop Poetry

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