Most loved

The air outside is crypt-grey and still
I am wrapped
in my butter-yellow gown
recalling Lecter's words
that the mind is a palace
of many rooms.
Daily I add to its hidden treasures
More and more its secrets tantalise
and immerse me in gossamer day-dreams...
Here is where I roam its Meditteranean-blue halls
trail my fingers along its studded doors
Sink into slanted rays of dusky sunlight
splayed across treacle floors
but my most-loved
is the room
frangranced with the embrace of many old books
rows and rows, scented labyrinths
of resin, nutmeg, dried petals of crimson roses
It is still. So still
The slow stroke of my finger down the spine of a book
sounds like rasping thunder
my bare toes cling to the burnished gold floor
most-loved room
And you are in it