Hemingway drains his whisky glass and picks up his rifle,
stomps from the room.
Sadly, the last we’ll see of him.
His clipped and perfect prose
Done for good.
Sylvia surfaces for the last time, before disappearing
below the lapping waves,
one last word on her beautiful blue lips.
No, not waving.
Gone for good.
Pass the purple prose and the sugar-pink poetry,
the long-winded sagas and the tea-time trash.
Just give me the facts!
Boris burbles, bright but bonkers.
I said the facts, sir!
Thatcher, Thatcher, school milk snatcher!
Not what history will recall.
What about HER story?
Diana, princess betrayed
Her story says it all.
Drop the pretense.
Give me something I can believe.
Believe in the beauty of fine-tuned fiction:
the gentle rustle of pages turning,
the perfume of old paper.
Behold the tranquility of a mind engrossed
and a spirit at peace.
Inspired by a visit to ‘The House of Books’ in Barrydale, South Africa. It lives up to its name!
Eccentric owner, Anton, is pictured above.