posted 6th September 2024
Life can be a fickle thing,
Unhappiness lurking like a cynical plague.
Happy times can become the most miserable of days,
A slow-motion distortion, better days are surely to come.
Up at six, places to be,
The potatoes needed to be bought our way.
He bends his knees, his back begins to ache,
Life has to have something better to offer than this painful disgrace.
The days finished, a lonely walk awaits,
The high street was empty as the thunder pounded down,
Four days more, until he could stay in bed,
At least then he'd be able to rest his blistered tired feet.
The week ended like a sudden bolt of joy,
He ran into town, bookshops all around.
Histories and merry blues, romantic tales from yesteryear,
Books as far as the eye could see, 'I hope the bookseller remembered me'.
One more week and life moved on,
No matter how many sprouts he pulled from the ground,
He never managed to make a pound.
Books were on his mind, not the daily grind.
It was night and day as the Bookseller came to play,
The sun was down, but the night hadn't come around.
He fell down to lower ground,
The Bookseller was falling round.
Night had fallen as the door fell wide open,
The Bookseller's shop was his heavens delight.
Camus, Kafka and Conrad too,
Millions of words, spelled out by the talented few.
No more days roaming the open fields,
A bookshop held so many more deals.
The Bookseller needed a helping hand,
And, on a cold autumn day, he found his heir to be.
Many years have passed since that cheerful day,
The Bookseller has long since passed away.
He'll always be grateful to the old man,
For giving him a much-needed chance, at living life in his own way.
