Fate

Fate

Piles of books

                On a once polished pine floor.

Shelves creaking

                With thousands more.

Dingy curtains

                Keeping out the light.

Overflowing astrays

                Dogends to a dizzy height.

A leather chair

                Once comfy and soft

Now sagging;

                Destined for the loft.

A table

                Laden with dirty plates

Too many words

                To consider their fates.

Worlds to explore,

                Lives to live.

A quiet man

                So much to give.

Men travel

                To distant lands.

This man

                Holds the universe in the grasp of his hands.

Opher – June 2024

When I lived in a tiny bedsit in Manor House, London, there was a man in his thirties living in the room below us. He had a big square oak table that had a pyramid of cannabis roaches and the whole of his room was a mass of books. Shelves bending, floor littered with heaps.

He was a strange man.

He spent his entire days smoking dope and reading. I never once saw him go out though he must have done. He needed food and to score dope.

He was an interesting man to talk to, very knowledgeable. I would drop in for a chat and we’d talk about writers; he’s recommend a book or two.

Turned out he had a first class degree in literature from Cambridge University.

I often wonder what happened to him.