©COPYRIGHT CATHY GRINDROD // ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 2015
This book is fire, is tablets of clay, magical marks
scorched hot in desert sun, in ovens of book.
This book lights its own flame, is warmth, solace;
brighter than engine’s spark; than furnaces.
No lakes, no cooling towers can put out this book,
held in a place of elsewhere, in this boy’s burning hands,
not even the lily cool of this child,
who cleaves pages, butterflies words.
Book makes her; she makes book, glides forward
like a fish finds current, on her silver spine
all that flowed from the writer as writing began.
She bathes in white book. Sometimes,
poised on the diving board of book,
her toes placed perfect on a ledge of blue
she wakes in a place of elsewhere, becomes this child
on the edge of flight. At any moment may
take to air, words rising, dipping, swirling,
scissor-tailing sky, againnew, newagain.
Imagine we bring these children home,
earthing foxes snuggling, safe to a cave
no wolf can ever blow down, opening to grand cavern,
thick walls of book - straight-backed, right-angled, always.
Imagine more homes, opening their doors
to children who grow, remain children, know book.
Commissioned by President CILIP