In the Old Reading Room

Only the shirr of pages being turned
suggests that anyone's alive.

In silence this extreme your neighbour's
heart might beat into your thoughts

and I'm already troubled by the air that's been
breathed and breathed a thousand times.

I stare at the blank page where I should
be making notes, take out a bag of grapes

to eat, laying the pips out on my pad as if
each one were an insight of significance.

Gill McEvoy

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Gill McEvoy would be pleased to hear them.