I must have passed this attic door

Framed in its mist of quietness

A thousand times,

I wonder what it was

That this time made me pause –

Accept the invitation –

And come in.

 

So far

This journey

Through nostalgia -country

Has been sweet,

Past the old rocking horse

(My first addiction)

The red tricycle

Upon which

Trailing

A panic of pursuing womenfolk

I first set out to see.

 

My cavalry sword!

With which -

My sergeant slain

And half my horses dead –

I brought

The entire Choctaw nation to it`s knees.

My gun,

And holster,

All the discarded weaponry

Of the warrior spirit -

All still here.

 

With my football,

Boxing gloves,

And cricket bat,

And all the other

Relics of un-lethal competition.

All…all here.

 

The cupboard door

Promised an inner secret

And there you were,

Waiting for the light,

Alone,

Imperishable,

Densely white,

As clear as clarity itself,

And all the shadow depth beyond

Black as deep space.

 

And my poems,

Bundled,

Wrapped,

And shelved.

Just

One

Loose

blank

And solitary page -

Titled –

I catch the words.

 

The shock,

Though only slight

Was centring.

It was an almost

Imperceptible

Knock into true,

A click

Of re-connection,

And a whirr

Of power on,

A difference

Known

But barely noted

Save that afterwards

There was change,

 

And then:

 

Perhaps?

If?

Maybe?

Although?

Could work?

Rhymed?

Blank?

Yes?

No?

….

...

..

.

?

 

 

                (This `happened` as a comp poem. If anyone can understand it please explain it to me)