The Scriptorium

• Emily Macfarlane, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2022

She closes the book. Shut.
Her fingers run over the
Degraded debossed lettering.
Clarity lost to age,
Meaning lost to time.

The smoky scent of leather melds
With the steady scent of oaken desks,
Stained with the ghost of archaic pursuit.

The room is full of the prismatic air
Filtering in from stained windows
That tell the stories from old.

The cold stone clicks from
Underneath her footfalls,
Echoing a hymn
No longer hummed.