The man behind the counter speaks with hushed tones
And I think this is his church and mine
Like it’s hallowed ground and sacred
He fingers fragile faded pages lost in time

The man behind the counter
Hears the doorbell ringing and he turns to smile
He makes no conversation and
Never seems to notice if you read or buy

There sancuary and silence here
No distant sound of traffic or the world outside at all
But this is not some graveyard full of dusty words or paper bones
From every shelf an invitation - every page a revelation

Some books are bound with leather and their
Ancient skin is warm their pages edged with gold
Some are just card and paper
Dressed in paper jackets hands have creased and folded

Jealously they guard the words entrusted to them long ago
Their pages torn, their spines worn down
They have found their true custodian, every day he watches over them
DH Lawrence,Thomas Hardy, Dickins, Bronte, J.R. Hartley

He can hear them talking, a thousand different voices calling us to task
To find the truth that’s hidden
And the answers for the questions there are yet to ask
The man behind the counter wipes dust from off his glasses
As the hour chimes,
The man behind the counter drinks his coffee slowly
And we take our time.