(It’s strange, how weirdly inspiring (in terms of art) English Literature degrees can be sometimes. Sadly, though, I think the metaphor here is going to be a little lost.
This is, I should mention, not really a poem – this is something closer to a work in progress. Hence the numbering; perhaps I’ll come back to this idea. It’s a lovely one, regardless.)
(Oh, and for those of you reading who are a little lost as to the symbolism, here’s how it works: prior to the 19th Century, books were read only by an elite few, and hence, paper was of a high, low acid quality. We move to the 19th Century, the introduction of the printing press, and we need paper in higher quantities, so we move to wood pulp (hence the term ‘pulp novels’) which are of a high acid quality, and degrade faster. This is why, oddly, books from the 15th Century are better preserved than books from the 19th Century. It’s a lovely factoid, and a piece of symbolism I’d like to return to.)