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.

© Peter Branson, 2009