The Antique book shop

There I sat on the wooden stool,

Smooth and darkened by years of use.

Turning the pages of an old book,

The cover of deep oak green,

And pages of crisp parchment.

Words did not make sense to me,

But the beauty of the writing

And colours of the paintings

Captured my imagination.

So much so unknown to myself,

Fingers still touching the page,

I am far away.

Through the condensation on the windowpane

My eye focussed on a couple

Walking across the road, hand in hand

They were not young, yet neither old.

A sense of wonder and binding, filled my thoughts

Secrets, tales, stories and bound togetherness,

In those hands, and the way they looked at eachother,

The same magic, as within the pages

But instead of hands…

The secrets, tales and stories

Were bound by the old dark green cover