My Mother’s House

My mother’s house is packed with books
The paper garden of my thought.
Mysteries, crime, adventure tales,
Poetic tomes, the facts of war.

I know them like a loved friend’s face,
Their covers and each lettered line.
I know the stains, the tears, the wear,
The marks that take me back in time.

So long ago I picked them up,
Devoured each chapter, phrase and word,
Cocooned within that special place,
My private and imagined world.

Quite deaf to any outside sound,
Unknowing of the turn of tide.
Entranced by other people’s words,
Inspiring me to try to write.

Those stories now are written large,
A part of me, beyond all doubt.
My story too is written there,
On pages in my motherโ€™s house.

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10 thoughts on “My Mother’s House

  1. Enjoyed this, as usual. Did you omit an “in” in the last line? I identified with it greatly. I’d read every book in the house at least once by time I was in high school…Some were read years before they may have been appropriate. That’s why I’m such a prodigy in my 60’s!!!! Oh, wait. . . .

  2. Loved this Oonagh, I too grew up in a house filled with books, none of which really had very good covers as they were all too well thumbed. How awful it would not to have books. ๐Ÿ™‚

  3. I agree! My house is much smaller than the one I lived in as a child, but we have loads of books and all my children have grown up loving to read as much as I do. One works in publishing now. ๐Ÿ™‚

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