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On the topmost shelf there stands an old man,
Still straight, his jeacket lettered in gold
About a hard frame; and those blotches and frays
Sing gladly of harrowing trials of old.
'The Poems of Blake': a two inch span
Of spine, and on the cover the Ancient of Days.
Not his tale alone he steps down to tell.
For the inside page is inscribed in ink:
'To Lucas with love from Pamela, Christmas
1918' - in full curves that link,
Then two kisses, and a line concludes the spell,
A wave rolling in from a time that was.
Perhaps it was a call to abandon home
For a dusky Circe and the Blessed Isles,
And its triumphs were told over ruby wine
As eyes held eyes in knowing smiles
By candlelight... Take my hand, old man, and come
And my hoard of years shall be the measure of thine.
Michael Buhagiar
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