There is an attic in my house I never go
yet all is there: the past in suitcases and wood,
in plastic, covered up in dust; the present in chaotic piles
of things that stay but ought to go.
I won’t go there, not for a while, and
in an empty corner rests the future. Or not at rest
but haunts at night and cracks the floor.
It all is there but why, what for?
Sometimes I wonder if you ever think of me,
Remember afternoons we spent together.
Your silence goes so well with grieve and distance,
Are memories not lies in many ways?
I ought to integrate the people we both met there,
Or the ones who should have been perhaps,
To give the whole experience a twist, a change,
To make it more mundane and practical, like daily cups and saucers.
Indra’s Net on Amazon.uk
An anthology of poetry in aid of the Book Bus 🙂
Bennison Books- post about this book!
(my poem The Balance is also included)
our parents had war as marker in time
we used family holidays as such,
and wars, those too, though not as much, would give
our memory more appropriate and
clear images of memorable days.
as reference of a book we had read;
a new cat coming, or an old one dead.
‘yes that was right after the heat wave there,
in belgium, in the ardennes, remember.’
‘the year you bought that hat was when we were
in england. that museum! the hand!’ laughter.
and when the war in bosnia kept us
awake we said bedtime rhymes to the boys.
that was then. nights without sleep. together.
when you got cancer, that whole year, we stayed
at home and I don’t recall of any
war but the fight that went on inside of
your body. time had stopped, was precious
and we filled it. laughter. sleepless nights. books.
and now all is marked as the time after
that day, the funeral, the first year so.