The attic where we children played our games
was where so many must have died before
forgotten people with forgotten names.
In Summer I felt heat from ancient flames
in darkened days of Winter there was more
of what the mind can’t grasp, in shades and sound.
A hauling wind could speak of pain and fear
the boards would squeak when no one was around
while things got lost and never they were found.
The attic of my youth, now I am here,
what has it lost or gained in all those years?
I am no guest here, this is home to me.
I hear the dripping of the smothered tears,
a moving shade of someone’s face appears
but who it is, I dare or can not see.
I close my eyes and cover both my ears
yet hear the shuffling feet of those long gone
a laughter and a cry, then all is still.
I hear a car outside, the night is done,
there is no reason why I can’t go on,
no harm returns and evil never will.
I leave the attic of my youth in morn.
The Sun is warming up the Earth and me
I feel triumphant for the new life born.
A last time I think of the souls forlorn,
for ever in the attic they may be.
I tried to do this terza rima form, ( thanks to Gonecycling who is a real master in this field ) I took a poem of Robert Frost
( “In a vale” ) as example for the rhyming scheme