12.16
He traded second hand, small market town,
under the hill behind the parish church.
You craved that damp dust fix, words everywhere,
tight-spliced on sagging shelves, head-high from seats
and tables, pilings down to chipped-tile floor,
so many you could hardly move at all.
You concentrated on the Literature,
big novels, from the eighteenth century
to early twentieth, great poetry,
published for everyman so folk could nub
each golden treasure for a pound or two.
Gaunt, stooped, asthmatic, dash used up, he’d sigh,
myopic inner eye concealed behind
a flash of monocle, with signal smoke
from toxic Passing Clouds, first red now grey,
in sympathy with each affected breath.
A slave to gravity, ash tired and sagged,
an avalanche of dandruff down his front.
Ex master, public school he underlined,
you marvelled how well he survived that core
brutality – alone – of them and us.
He loved to talk about the classics, first
editions he acquired but long flogged on,
old double and three decker tomes, ‘Tom Jones’,
‘Pamela’, ‘Humphrey Clinker’, ‘Middlemarch’.
You listened avidly while he name-dropped,
writers you weren’t familiar with way back.
He echoed pre war upper-middle class
politeness, doppel-ghost of Eric Blair.
No cash to spare, he fed you books for free.
Both knew you’d steal them anyway, given
the chance. You’re drawn there several times a year,
anxious to browse and share what you have read.
One day the shop is shut, sign up, no one
about to tell you why. Months afterwards
a local joiner moves his workshop there.
You never do catch up. He could have moved,
to relatives you feel he hasn’t got,
a home for tired ex teachers too gaga
to mind. You will him death, cruel to be kind.