In the School Library Hands are rarely in open prayer, Cradling the spines of other worlds, Instead talk is the common currency, And contemplation a small coin. Weaned on colour and motion, Here is a different dexterity, Where fingers pad the slickness of plastic, And hands power the mice of information. Hooked on this noisy business, Few will seek out those quiet avenues, Where a thin light still continues to slant, Through diminishing book shelves, Shaping shadows in Dewey order. As one class leaves and another arrives, One might be tempted to declare: The money-traders are well and truly Running…