It's Still Life

The Book

When I was young
and opened this book,
I could hear wind chimes.

It was like air, cool and dry on my fingers.
Leather grain, and oiled from fingers,
a subtle worn smooth surface.

Leather strong and softly pliable.
Resistance of the binding suggested
an aged spine but it was much older.

Grandmother said her mother inherited
it from her grandmother and hers from hers,
as if we all spun in ornamental order
on an ancient circle.

The paper was linen cotton,
soaked, rolled and pressed.
Touched by old ink.

I thought it was written with spices.
The pages were knowledge
waiting to be rediscoverred.

They were crisp. Sweet. Woodsy,
like dry leaves underfoot when I turned a page.
Pressed herbs. Flowers. Recipes.

It was as if the ghost
of a long dead grandmother held watch over it.

Mum burnt that book when Dad
was away on a training session.

She built a bonfire from autumn leaves,
newspaper, and fallen limbs,
and tossed it into the flames.

I remember standing there watching it
until there was nothing left of it
but pages of ash that held their shape
and refused to rise into the sky.

Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 24: A book you love. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.