Tag Archives: If on a winter’s night a traveller

Italo, I have often had this dream: A bookshop winds on spiral stairs, with shelves Inviting eager eyes to search for names And spines which lie, “Yes, I am here; it’s me.” Italo, in my dream it always seems That though my search for perfect books will delve Across each shelf, the titles play theseContinue reading “Book Travellers: For Italo Calvino”