In the attic

I picked up a copy of John Drinkwater’s poems last night to remind myself why I used to like him. This is why.

• 

And a tribute.

In the attic

In the attic, light falls dim as dusk,
Barred with drifting motes of chaff and husk,
And cobwebs hang from beams where owls would perch
In days when haylofts opened to the sky. I search

My memories, the golden motes of light,
For owl song and the scuffling in the night
Of mice or martens, scampering overhead,
I heard them once, but if I did they’re all now dead.

In attics’ dim and dusty past we sleep,
Our childhood selves, and sometimes when we weep,
We hear another voice that’s not our own,
That whispers dust mote moths and birds have flown

Swallow-winged to where the dusk light falls.
Through attic windows, when the night owl calls,
I’ll watch the last light golden in the west,
Remembering those days I have loved best.