Other Poems

	In the library There is the stale air As if each visitor Deposits carbon oxides In return for oxygen Rows of neat platoons Lie like stranglers Inching out to each Set of sensing fingertips It is as quiet as Bored concrete. Soft The soporific strip-lights Sink the dough-heads An occasional kick Hits a nervous cough In some unloved corner Where radiators die The grey raincoated man Forgotten by his wife Tips the scales of sleep And newsprints his brow The librarian, eager as a hawk Perches on the counter By the door. No-one Escapes her light-swallow There's an unpunished voice Somewhere behind "Local" Someone whispers "Life" The hawk swoops for lunch © David Incoll 2001
Back to Other Poems index