Saturday, 8 January 2011


Everyone who lives, or has ever lived, in a house with a loft or attic that has not been converted into additional living space will know that they are there for the exclusive purpose of being crammed full of boxes containing all sorts of useful 'stuff', much of which never ever gets reopened or used, certainly not for years and years.
Our minds are often like attics, the place where we store our memories, this poem and the images that accompany it were inspired by that concept.


There’s a box in the attic marked ‘Christmas’
The streamers and tinsel
Wrapping paper and cards
Decorations and lights
All neatly packed away for another year
Let’s hope the sentiments last a little longer
Than just until ‘Twelfth Night’

There’s a box in the attic marked ‘Photographs’
Like the images they capture
The memories are faded and dulled by time
Returning only when brought out once more
Into the light

There’s a box in the attic marked ‘Baby Clothes’
These were supposed to have been handed down
To the Grandchildren
But times and fashions change
Now they are just memories in cloth

There’s a box in the attic marked ‘Toys’
These too were neatly packed away
Safely stored to bring pleasure once more
To another generation
But technology marches on
No one seems to want these non collectable but once loved friends
They too are just memories gathering dust

There’s a box in the attic marked ‘Useful things’
It’s never been opened since it was put there years ago

There’s a box in the attic marked ‘memories’
I dare not open this
If I do, surely I will cry.

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