Understanding the Dark
Switch on the torch,
Sweep past the curtains,
Swallow tea-swabbed biscuits,
Before they discover you
In the attic.
The glare of the battery-charged glow
And the warmth from it is enough
To illuminate the dusty boxes
That place themselves like blocks
Of grey speckled pieces of fudge
In a long dismissed shop.
Or, if you would prefer,
The boxes being akin,
And likened,
To squares of butter that are distributed,
Spread to the edge of the fluff-covered toast,
This, of course, being the wooden shelf,
A very dry slice of the loaf
Protruding from the wall.
A quick dip into one of these cardboard boxes,
And what luck!
A trove of musty photograph albums and books,
Faded stamps and droning letters.
The shine of yellow light bounces quickly
Off laminated, crumpled and neat transparent wallets,
Briefcases full of an entire holiday,
Old snaps of lifeguards, old affairs and,
Worst of all,
That hideous outfit of grimy, beach-trodden socks with sandals.
It is a shame that so much was left behind in an attic.
The family of this mansion work so hard to gain memories,
Only to store them up in this dark room.
It is only right to stack everything neatly,
Rather than the mess they leave
For a while until they become interested again.
It is the only thing that this wisp of a soul
Can really do without using energy,
As they were supposed to spend time
Back at the graveyard again for ‘ghost duty’.
To watch unknown and distant descendants drop some flowers off,
That were not the occupants favourite,
And observe countless conversations that were irrelevant.
Sometimes group of youths would either
Inspect the headstones and try to identify the buried,
Or blast awful tunes that resemble quick words and clanking sounds.
No, no, here was much nicer.
Amongst happy memories,
Be it other people’s…
Even if they spotted a dark figure,
And demand to see a medium or psychic
About why,
Just why,
A spirit enjoys looking at photos of Tenerife,
And the hotel buffets of the Greek Islands,
Or a group of men with hairy stomachs
With beer cans in their hands,
And bags of battered sausages and gravy-covered chips,
Obviously dripping with grease
And the ultimate fear of seagulls…
