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.