Fragile leaves.

The old book sits in front of the light.

Wax drips down to the desk and pools close to the edge.

Light shines through old sheets of script from years gone by.

Black ink crawls like worms:

words from the past set in the depths of time;

black scrawl that speaks of dreams and hopes,

love and hate, life and death.

The dry leaves feel soft and thin, not strong.

They could burn with a thought,

and then those dreams and hopes,

the things that are kept there for all time

would be lost to us all.

The desk would scorch

and the pain of loss

would call out

through the threads of time.

*

This piece came about after setting my student a challenge - describe an image using single syllable words only. It's actually really difficult, but creates wonderful, abstract lines. Try it!