Was it sitting on my mums lap,
listening to her lilting voice,
as she read a bedtime story to my younger brother and I?
Or was it the day I read,
“The lion the witch and the wardrobe”,
and discovered the adventure that had enthralled me,
for quite a number of nights,
had taken place in a moment?
Or maybe it was the day,
my Dad showed me a book he had got as a present?
A beautiful red leather bound book,
filled with poetry,
which at the time,
was so far beyond my understanding.
I still devoured every word,
and loved the touch,feel and smell of that book.
Or maybe it is a part of me?
Something within my genes which cannot be ignored.
As real as a skin condition which must be scratched.
What ever the origin,
I know that for me, it is as necessary as breathing,
that every day I read,
and every day I write.