On finding a little piece of living past-a fragment of paper dating from 1836, in an 1880s edition of George Elliot's Scenes of Clerical life (published by Blackwood and Sons).

The Paper holds many stories of the past, what secrets can it tell?

A carriage rolling over gravel, pulled by black horses;
an elegant gentleman and his sweetheart,
taking long walks in the park.
Her gloved hand in his, she wears her new  dress,
shimmering blue which is echoed in her eyes,
and admired by her gentleman companion.
Marriage follows, a family of six children,
the faded dress given to the maid in the kitchen,
who wears it  every Sunday into holes.
The Rag man collects it at the back door,
throws it into his cart, it begins a new life-
pulped by rough, red hands in a big vat,
the dress mixes with other rags, old unwanted
garments transforming into paper.
Its new life records the publisher's expenses;
pencils, ink, pens; all neatly inked into
its surface, kept in a book in a bureau.
Years pass and the records become old;
no longer needed; the pages are torn out,
cut neatly with scissors in a steady hand,
and fitted into the spine of a new book,
which tells the fictional tale of Milby Town.
History and fiction merge into one;
young lovers, hard working servants, Rag Men
and factory workers; pages turn- they record lives;
both real and imagined and speak to the future.

Frost makes patterns on the window panes
as his warm breath rises into the cold room.
Seated at his piano, the labour of his fingers on the keys,
ice trickles down the glass, like a tear drop.

Outside, voices rise into the October air,
their breath forming small clouds
of daily concerns, admonishments,
hurried footsteps, carriages passing by the window.

He rises to light the fire, sips at hot coffee,
warmth seeping within, quill scratches at paper,
creative fire rising, the ice withdraws, flows
into a series of memories, expressed by warm fingertips.

Tentatively, slowly, an inner world is revealed,
of a musician whose ears are frozen to chattering voices,
but who strikes fire into the hearts of those
who listen, and are swept away by the flood of passion.

Memories rise and fall with the notes in his silent room;
faces of those loved and lost, and longings to hear again,
the sound of the wind carrying the song of birds, shepherd's flutes,
and the timbre of sweet conversation.

With a soft sigh, he falls into her smile and rippling laughter;
the rising music pours out a torrent of youthful hope, then anguished  despair, descending  into quavering acceptance,
as browned leaves drift against the window.

The leaves crunch under my feet and the wind plays with my hair,
the distant scent of woodsmoke fills the air.
I stop and breathe in the fresh scent of nature, here I find repose,
in my pocket a scrap of paper and pencil, I take them and compose.