Toys and books were a luxury, out of reach.
Being poor meant looking but not having.
To want a toy so badly took months of saving.
Just to be disappointed, the toy was sold out.
Story books were my escape from reality.
When I read the stories, I become a part of it.
For a little while I am free from hardships.
The school library was a haven for me.
I turned to my imagination for comfort.
A cardboard box found at the dump-site,
Sitting inside, I let my mind take me on adventures,
A spaceship, a race car, just like in those story books,
my mind created the magic for play.
But nothing could beat story books.
My favourites were adventures and mysteries.
Through these books I travelled to far lands.
A world I could touch through words read.
I laughed and cried turning each page slowly.
Romance curled my toes, murder sent chills down my spine.
I re-read chapters of Agatha Christie’s books.
And other favourites got read more than once.
I salute those authors that pen words so alive.
Words turning into pictures, the imagination creating.
Taking the reader into the pages of a story.
Escape from the now, away from the drudgery.
I have my own library now lined with story books.
Books borrowed as a child, I now own as favourites.
Through the years, I have re-read my books.
And still, I am drawn into the pages with excitement.
By C.E. Pereira
(31-8-2014)
HoneyGwhiz 