I must have passed this attic door,
Framed in it`s mist of quietness
 A thousand times
I wonder what it was
That bid me now
Accept the invitation
And come in.

 

This journey
Through nostalgia country
Has been sweet.
Past the old rocking horse
(my first addiction)
My old three-wheeler bike
Upon which - trailing
A panic of pursuing womenfolk -
I first burst out the bonds of neighborhood
And went to see.

 

And my old tin hat
Laid here with
My sword, my bandolier and my gun -
All the discarded weaponry
Of the warrior spirit -
All still there.
Stacked up alongside
My football,
Boxing gloves,
And cricket bat,
And all those other
Relics of un-lethal competition.

 

The cupboard door
Promised an inner secret
And here he hangs:
My indomitable
Hardy old astronautical explorer!
Still densly white,
And all the shadow-depth around
Black as deep space.
This visor
Which so bragged to scrutinise
The immeasurable expanses of the vast
Now merely
Baffles back my peering
And mock mirrors me.

 

And there`s my poems
...............
My poems!
Time was
When she went by
The sun leaped down
And danced a way before her,
And the excited moon
Peeped around the corner of the world,
And the city gaped
As poor, bewildered I,
Shuttlecocked between hope and despair,
Tettered a lovelorn idiot

(Every single word that`s written here
Was a wound,
But I have grown cicatrices
Like onion skins)

She goes by daily now
And the sun stays in the sky
And the moon in the earth`s shadow
And the city goes about it`s busy-ness
While the unaltered beating of my heart
Signifies that, somewhere, something`s died.
How silently
The
slow
drop
stealthy 
Dust 
Blurs
the edge
Of everything.

(It`s time to leave)