Friday, 21 April 2017

The Historian's Aprentice

The Historian’s Apprentice
By the light of the candles,
And the smell of the must,
I wear out my elbows,
Shifting cobwebs and dust.

And fetching the ink, 
For the Grey Hat to scribe,
But for me to be near her,
Is enough of a bribe.

She babbles and mutters,
As she wields her straw broom.
As the long candles flicker,
Her words fill up the room.

She drawls about medicine,
And mutters in verse,
And her opinions on maths,
Come out clear and terse.

When she lectures on love,
A tear shines in her eye,
But, I’ll never have the courage,
To ask her just why.

When her broom is hung up,
And the ink put away,
And the last of the chores,
Are checked off for the day.

She looks at me then,
Through rheumy grey eyes,
As the last of the sunlight
Reflected there dies.

And I take her gnarled hand,
And I lead her back home,
Where she sleeps like a bookmark,
In a bed-sized old tome.

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