A faint musty damp as eyes peep cautiously over the chair,

quickly taking in the room, everything lying here and there,

just visible in the Attic’s gloom.

Stacks of yellowing Newspapers shout dramas from the past,

fingers tracing in the dust, a place for sweet memory to last

and your precious things to entrust.

In the corner is a heavy coat, worn with pride to fight the cold,

a gentleman’s hat on the floor, shabby now and by Moth holed,

but once admired in a flashy store.

A rack of briar pipes from which pungent aromas still linger,

smoked in front of the fire, a leather glove missing a finger,

various bits of old time attire.

Two fishing rods in canvas cases left, forgotten like the rest

Father, Son and the river bank, those times were their best.

That and the beer they drank.

It seems criminal to empty all this without knowing their tale,

from this dusty place to rip, yet we’ve just completed the sale

so the lot will be in the Skip.


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