Sometimes there’s the need to close all the doors,
The outside world’s nonsense, shut out, put on pause;
Settle down with a book in a comfortable chair,
And spend a hour or two just relaxing there.
In a favourite room, in a favourite house,
Which good fortune allows me to call home,
Is where I escape and loose myself,
In a novel, or some historical tome.
The room, almost square, hushed by walls of thick stone,
Looks to the mountain that protects it so well,
And its old well trodden, polished wood floor,
Must have many a tale it could tell.
Now shelves filled with books, pages full of words,
Sit in anticipation of their turn to be read.
And in my winged back chair I can often be found,
When I’ve swapped my garden for a good book instead.
Reference books nestle alongside those full of verse,
And novels, classic and modern, abound;
The history of the world is there to explore,
While biographies wait to be found.
A room filled with riches, of literary treasures,
Some, their secrets have yet to be told,
And it’s there, with the books, that I immerse myself,
And let the magic around me unfold.
