The Wonder of Attics

There’s something about attics,
I’ve always thought,
Something romantic, exciting,
Anything may be there.
What may we find?
Boxes of books,
Ornaments for which there is no space.
Cameras redolent of long ago holidays,
Pictures someone thought worth painting
Then thrust away.
Not Van Gogh, I’m afraid,
Not Renoir,
But someone’s dream.
Over there a cot awaiting a grandchild,
And over there a chair which no one will use.
In some attics there is the joy of a rocking horse,
Dappled and splendid,
But such glory is not for many, I fear.
That box of disguises was a child’s joy,
Another of mini cars a delight.
As for the monkey in rubber boots,
What fun, what comfort.
Piles of boxes, suitcases galore,
Surely there is treasure in one,
Something forgotten,
Waiting to come to light.
That is the pleasure of attics.
ANYTHING MAY BE THERE!