Attic

In the Quiet Attic

Above the kitchen’s clatter, above the late‑afternoon light,
There lies a cramped, cobwebbed attic, a hushed, secretive spire.
Mould‑yellowed exposure, the dust‑stirring monsoon of night,
Where memories coil in trunks, where forgotten echoes retire.

A beam of amber sun leans through a cracked, slatted window,
Illuminating a sea of lace, a crackling of old pipes.
There’s a stack of brass–bound diaries, an iron‑clad cello,
And a mother’s dented tea tin, a relic of childish rites.

The walls are bare, yet each creak in the floor is a poem,
Old‑timed fragments of summers, the tick of a distant clock.
The wooden rafters hum like a distant, familiar home,
And every grain of dust whispers of an unseen flock.

From somewhere beneath a tin roof rests a shy, curious cat,
It darts through the shadows, a silent, quiet play.
Its coat is flecked in amber, its paws tread the floor’s scat—
It’s a fire‑watcher, guarding the attic’s secret bay.

No one knows the attic’s purpose, no one listens the sigh,
Of the wooden beams that hold a heart, a sigh of times gone by.
Yet carved in that hush of dreams, aged as a long‑forgotten sigh,
Lies the history we cherish, the soul of an old, moss‑crowned sky.