Attic
The sturdy steamer trunks
scabbed with peeling labels.
The rusty rictus
of an upturned grate.
An abacus subtracting
beads onto the floor.
A blind doll. A flock
of damaged shuttlecocks.
A gramophone long retired,
Toscanini At The Met, still in place.
A Baby Belling.
A yellow beach ball
still limply holding
his father’s breath.
This poem first published in Smiths Knoll
His collection, In The Cinema is published by Playdead Press 2014, £7.99
Stephen Bone started writing poetry several years ago, encouraged by Alan Ross. His work has appeared in magazines including Seam, Smiths Knoll, The Interpreter’s House, The Rialto among others. He has worked in television, theatre and film.
Abegail Morley 
I especially liked the ending of this poem, so touching.
I was recently at a writers workshop where the instructor asked us to start writing after looking closely at and considering an object — and so use that as our starting point. So this attic poem is an excellent example, to my mind, of where objects can be literally filled with meaning and life – as in that powerful last couplet. Every detail in this poem is so carefully chosen. Thank you!
Wonderful last line.
Love this poem, evocative and beautifully told.
Love Stephen’s poem, evocative and beautiful.
Many thanks for the generous remarks.
attics are such extraordinary places, always the unexpected, thank you for the poem. Karen
Many thanks to you too Karen.
Maybe the cellar next !