by James Thornton
Facing a surfeit of apricot dessert
at a table of donors
I stand and walk
to the balcony behind me.
It opens on a library stretching
immeasurable kilometres on either side
its stacks reaching higher than sight.
There are no windows, but golden lamplight
warms the leathered dark
and I wonder how to get books
down from the higher shelves.
Just now a bird
flies close past, his head is white his tail is white
all bright against the inturned books.
A sea eagle, I think
and he softly turns and looks me in the eye
then sails past heading to the right
deeper into the endless room
beyond the capturing reach of books
not obedient to gravity.
Held by both I watch.