Being dizzy with imagination in the British Museum

Whenever I am on a jaunt to London, I visit the British Museum - this neo classical palace has haunted my dreams - it is one of the backdrops for the narratives of my life - others might include the public bar of The Onslow, with its musicians playing reckless blues, a wheat field under an autumn sky, a warm river between shining fields, a moonlit courtyard, full of music -

When I was a post graduate student, I had a ticket for the old Reading Room - I yawned under its dome - I rested my elbows upon the padded green desk before me -

My friend, John, who was studying International Relations, imagined that the museum was a sinister ministry - we would walk by it at night - he would point to a lit window, and say - the minister never sleeps -

I like to stare through the railings at the main entrance, in Great Russell Street - the huge Ionic columns could hide the doorways of a fearful temple -

Roaming through the galleries, I never fail to be beguiled by what I see - I am easily transported into different worlds - I shiver with dread before the winged bulls, with their aura of immense power - I can imagine smoke filled skies above burning cities, chariots racing across the sand, keen eyed warriors hunting lions -

I see men fighting to the death with centaurs - I can hear their hoarse cries - I look upon their struggles with horror and pity - I can taste the mead contained in gold inlaid drinking horns -

When I emerge from the museum, I am dizzy for a few moments with imagination - I look at the Bloomsbury Streets - I see their wonders, too - a steadying Guinness in the Museum Tavern is called for -