Winter coats on rainy mornings,

My cautious mother, opposite sister,

Skipping down a slippery slide of a road

Leaves plastered on dripping windows

The forlorn library crouched

Cowering from the dusk heavens above

The stories hid on dreary shelves                          

Looking, curiously taking them down

Pondered what hid in bent rough shelters

Piles stacked, rising near my mother

Joyful sister choosing the prettiest covers

Small, shy and simple, yet smiling          

Big blue coat hiding a small figure

Forest eyes searching amongst brown hair

Tiny hands at thin sides

Reaching, or trying, to get up high

Words rolled from whispering tongues

Green eyes

Colossal

Uttering

Intrigued

Impertinent

Sitting in the silent brooding

Amongst the rusted books

As dust drifted like the snow

Light flickering on gentle pillow floors     

The lifelessness of wooden shelves

My mother

Judge of all

Every cover I chose,

Too boring, too sad, too bizarre

My sister with her colossal heap of five books

Believing I chose far too many

Books filled with life

Whispers of tales and adventure

Bringing smiles to eyes  

As they looked across crisp pages

I hardly ever spoke

Yet could utter every tale

Quietly, as it echoed off

The pale blue walls

Yet spoke to noone

All those years ago

And so we were

Exploring the depths of those books

Learning what no child our generation would

The love of those rough dented covers

Taught all I ever needed to know

To the girl who was so violent and rude

Yet gentle to them, whom she respected

The stories she listened to

The stories that I still cherish

From

Those rainy mornings

At the library