The book that I ‘found’ in the second hand store
Would never have thought itself ‘lost’
It sat on its back in a pile on the floor
The jacket was thin and embossed
The corners were frayed of cover and page
They bore the occasional tear
And text of the poems that faded with age
Told half of the tales that were there
There were notes in the margins in pencil and pen
And written by several hands
And written the way things are noted down when
They are done by one who ‘understands’
One writer wrote reams on the subjects and themes
While others, the rhythms and rhymes
The book carried so many thoughts that it seems
It had been ‘second hand’ many times
I turned to the front, to look inside the cover
And see what would be my expense
To find that the book was a gift from a lover
When prices were measured in pence
The brief dedication was sweet and sincere
It spoke of the future and trust
It was hard in that bookstore to hold back a tear
To think they and their future were dust
The different creases in corners each told
Where a favourite poem was kept
And water stained ink on a verse made me think
Of the eye that had read and had wept
A few pressed petals that fell from a page
Showed someone had marked their desire
While the smell of the paper, all smoky with age
Revealed it was read by the fire
And now in my hands it told me its tales
While surely it kept many more
And I would soon add some unknowing details
To the book that I ‘found’ in the store
Our lives are revealed in the objects we touch
The worth does not equal the cost
And the book that wouldn’t have pondered it much.
Would never have thought itself ‘lost’
