The Book

A book waits for you in the shadows;

she has set it on your desk today,

an inch or two from the lamp,

beside the fresh long‑life flower drowsing in its vase,

not far from pencil, knife and paper‑clip.

Other books turn their faces away;

though far from home,

before you think of the light toys scattered on the floor,

before she thinks of the boiling milk

or the thunderclouds blowing in from Bode.

This afternoon they came,

now the sky has fallen, pressing heavy on your house.

Months ago, in Vastra or Sell,

the book drew breath and set out towards you.

It carries the scent of two great oceans,

then becomes a choir singing the new world in simple verses.

Now it is here; as day relaxes into night,

it sits upright on your desk,

and when you hold it in your hands,

it dreams the long journey home has begun.

Your wife sits down to turn over a magazine;

your daughters call for bed, and a timid old cat,

they are afraid of the dark all through the house;

your true journey is about to start, one hour more,

and all your luggage is already in the hall.