I was brought up with a bookcase,
which came with a house my parents bought.
I dreamed of being a writer in the room we shared
and where childish rivalries were fought.
I dwelt on disappointments as time did run away
‘No thank you’, were the only words the publishers would say.
Then I moved in with a woman who condemned it
to be planking for new shelving out of sight.
My literary pretensions were cursed just like Adam’s bite.
Eventually, nearly all my books went to charity,
as she remorselessly set out to declutter me,
but the last year has been seismic
and I can finally say I’m free.
A beautiful, brand-new oak bookcase
was delivered yesterday,
so, I’m playing soldiers with the cinders
of my collection and for inspiration do I pray.