The
ocean washed me down Wandsworth road
On
to this archipelago of tower blocks;
These
desert islands which became a kind of paradise
Because
now it always feels like home wherever I am washed
It
was a strange paradise this land of giants.
The
chaos swirled through in dark currents
Murders,
illness, rape and disablity
Eddying
round the dogged homes of quiet faith
Yet
at times the quiet would pervade all
In
the blanketing of surprising snow
Or
in the stillness of a chill December night:
A
pure wind of God, icy and straight and true.
The
library sat quietly amongst the gray giants
Flanked
by the cautious battlements of my church
And
the humdrum struggles of the York square shops.
It
was an island of books amid a sea of the spoken word
The
big windows brought a quiet light to its learning
While
the old read newspapers
And
the young sought diversion from their boredom.
I
wandered here to escape the loneliness of bachelordom.
It
was a haven
And
a treasure trove
And
an ocean of learning to travel endlessly.
It
was everything a library should be.
And
in the hall a toddler group bustled
While
the school crocodile pitter-pattered
To
story time in the children's library
And
the head librarian sat on our management committee
It
was not grand like the central library
Refitted
and bright with the buzz of book readers
But
it served our community
Which
endured books as a necessary distraction from life.
They
closed it of course.
As
they had closed the children's library on the neighbouring estate
But
no sit-in now, just the acceptance of the inevitable:
If
you don't read books you don't deserve a library.
Now
I visit and the library is squeezed into the community centre
(Itself
an overblown failure: capital expenditure exceeding revenue funding)
And
the square is left empty,
The
big windows blacked, my thoughts sad
And
my heart angry.