The reading room is packed and strewn
with oil soap scented shelves,
of cherry wood, and as I stood
and held the brass hand rail,
the awe I felt was like a well
too deep to see inside,
the silence thick and just as if
a child had gone and died.

I waited straining for a sound
to interrupt and prove,
this place was too good to be true
and spoil nostalgic mood.
The books that lined the library
were smooth brown leather bound,
and ghostly whispers did I hear,
“Write something ‘bout this down”.

The names Jack London, Swift, and Yeats
were floating in my head,
if only I could honor them,
but my dull pen is dead.
I’d write a picture of them here
while sitting at these desks,
round spectacled, with slicked back hair
and wearing wool tweed vests.

Had inspiration come to them
as it might come to me,
by looking at the high glassed dome
with icing filigree?
And so with modesty I try
to write a poem that dares,
to capture fancy words like theirs
I know cannot compare.

Written by Sara Fielder © June 2014