I retrieve the boxes of books from the loft,
unpacking with all the care and attention
of an archaeological dig,
I blow the dust off the volumes and flick through the pages
as though to wake the poets from their slumber.
I sit cross-legged on the carpet
surrounded by books, by words,
immersed in the splendour of poetry,
the words dancing before my eyes
to a tune only they and I can hear.
I feel the warmth of a fire-side
from centuries past,
I read in the glow of flickering flames,
flames long turned to ash
that still burn and glow hot.