Photo by Patrick Porto from Pexels

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…

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger from Pexels

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