My favourite book
Will be written by a man who has a slight limp
and takes time to write in the mornings
when the light fills his study,
making him wish he could capture it in paint.
He hobbles down a cobblestone path
to buy fresh pastries and strong coffee,
always says good morning to a lady watering
flowers, she only ever smiles back.
One day she will pick him a buttonhole
and change everything.
He works with an old typewriter,
passed down by his grandfather
his desk is chipped and dented,
there’s a brown leather inlay with gold leaf.
Underneath there’s a drawer that sticks
it has pencil shavings that roll around,
and a selection of boiled sweets.
When he finishes a chapter
as a treat he takes a cream tea
under his favourite tree
and watches the swallows feeding
long into the afternoon.
His face has lines, eyes are kind
with a thought he takes a journey
beyond the confines of his study,
around the agapanthus out
through the open window
to travel across the downs,
running like a child along
the edge of the beach.
Sometimes when he types, he cries
and laughs at himself as he wipes his glasses
He will dedicate the book to someone he loved
but had to let go, they will know.