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