I wrote and published poetry (on paper) long ago, before writing two novels and a third which I put aside to return to poetry. While rereading old notebooks I realised that even when I thought I had set poetry aside, I was writing poetry between paragraphs. Below is a revised version of a poem written in the old library of Aberystwyth, Wales, a magical place, on the Atlantic. It was in November, it was dark every day and I didn’t take photos at that time, unfortunately, but I absolutely loved every day I spent there. The seagull photo is to remind myself that Aberystwyth also had the cheekiest seaguls I have met to this day (they stole my sandwiches).

Climbing the twisted staircase

walking on creaking boards

reading books that speak

of a language of old

Diffuse light in the ancient stained glass

and the old men

they remember as they walk

hands behind their backs

a painful past that

has broken them

and I see them pass by the window