My quit Uncle
The room in the attic had a bed, bare commode floorboards on which dust
danced as sun rays light came from a loft window.
The murmur stopped the room waited for my next move; I looked around nothing
here to bother about and closed the door.
My uncle lived here, he only left his room and came down for his meals,
when he didn’t vanish for weeks “The Drink, the mother said.
One day he didn’t return, mother, went to the police and reported him missing
, after that no one mentioned him again.
I was selling the house and looked around for something of worth
I saw on the bookshelf a small book, poetry written by him; odd no one
had told me that. A man had written of the wonders he had seen,
landscape and seascape coloured by his mind, the forgotten had sprung
back to live.
I sat on his bed and read, till daylight faded and it was night, looked out of
the window and saw what he had seen, the beauty and his loneliness.
The room was silent now it didn’t need to sing, or whisper its sorrow.
I had heard his song and will carry his voice into the future.