Abacus

The fold of the mouth takes
You round the cyclonic patterns,
Behind the walls of the books,
Dusting past the picture-letters.

Into the stream of life of alphabetic,
Red-past-blue to modern colours,
There is the systematic filter,
Abacus filler.

And the modern library division,
Pencil points, of the line of thought,
Last reader's deliberation,
Directed there untaught.

Looks slightly at the reader next to her,
And the book, the moving cover,
Picking up after, on the pinking sun,
Misted over by the clouds
Sinking into the distantly dark
Splintered black perspective of trees.

Strained sheen that fizzes up the print
And the orange lights that fades,
So the content looks green.

Shifts back to the book with the moving cover
Laid, abandoned on the wooden desk,
Suddenly, reader gone.

To the talking that was dull
That has moved to a milder murmur,
And the writing that was done
Smiles next into the lasting sun.

And so the grey,
That falls over onto the listening pink,
Fades into the reading leaves,
The falling of the page,
The book gone, and the trees.