need the touch of a page turner.
Their rough hands, sticky fingers and thumbs
- my creased spine, my dog-eared corners -
are all forgiven. The tot of rum
spilt a life long stain - the marmalade
map at breakfast, the ketchup suppers
of fish 'n' chips, that day of homemade
piccalilli, all that smother
of words - and even that jack tar,
who let leak a nostalgic tear
and penned a shanty in margins
- all forgiven. A mottled bargain
in Oxfam now. But billow my sails,
breathe life into barnacled tales
and find treasure in turning pages.