Ghosts in the Bromley House Library

debbie-mossSaturday, eight hours since glints of sunlight crossed a brass meridian
A polished line in a small room on the first floor
Only lights flickering in the Market Square
Seep in through small panes and shine on worn oak
Lawrence sails passed shelves of sleeping poets
Inky hands wrapped round a jar
Modernity’s tongue spills out smearing the glass
‘The poetry inside’ says Lawrence nudging
Byron treading the creaking twisted stairs
Byron whines and whispers to Lawrence
‘New ways are only greatest for those already great.’

Sillitoe leans against the cracked window and coughs
He is listening to the Mouthy Poets Say Sum Thin in the Square
Come you two, there’s something here for those like us who perhaps knew
Old ways can change and lives made better
With words which must be spoken
For young lives which have been broken
And the poets listened for hours
To women witness to the words’ power
Then when the mouths had left the
The poets drifted back to their shelves, and jammed new words until
Four hours from solar noon, and for the sun to cross that brass
But today is Sunday and only the ghosts will see it pass.

© Debbie Moss 2014. All rights reserved.