This is the library without poetry.
A futuristic new build,
like an ode to modern art,
upon an esplanade,
wide, still, spiralling, static.
The torturous climb upon a winding staircase.
Glass panelled ceiling, wood chip hidden,
as if rubbed out, never before been seen.
The log fire hearth has been refurbished,
adroitly cut out to reveal nothing but
the same neutral ivory cream wallpaper.
As I survey this strange prism shaped
“Palace Robotica” I note there are few books
save the odd erotica, e-books, kindle fire,
no poetry in sight. Glass ceiling,
robots instead of librarians.
What remains in this minimalist’s paradise
is a sense of devil’s rendez-vous.
I see through the window a woman
I barely recognise.
I go over and we talk of her time in a pre-fab house
and how life was “better in them good old days.”
The woman then leaves.
I look through the book in my bag
of old rhymes and verses
Then at home I speak softly,
accentuate and repeat
poetry no longer seen
in the future libraries.