Forgotten Accommodation

We climbed the narrow attic stair, And entered rooms established there. Thick grey dust lay across the gloom, Many years spent without a broom. Cobwebs hung in every place, New occupants had filled the space. On a shelf sat an old birdcage, Tenanted in another age. Chills swept in from a broken pane, Small window letting in the rain. A rickety stained brocade chair, Seat and back were now threadbare. Curtains frayed along their edges, Hanging crooked. Also ledges Nailed up on the damp crumbling walls, Odour of abandoned mothballs. Wallpaper, once with roses pink, Now gave off a horrendous stink. Forgotten accommodation, In this lonely bleak location. Empty now of occupation, Who slept here, what was their station. Just how hard was their daily grind, So much history we could find. Something scuttled along the floor, Down the steps to the corridor. A resident we had no doubt, Some little local layabout Who we had unkindly disturbed, Leaving so quickly quite perturbed. We climbed back down the attic stair, Away from this poor mouse’s lair, Back to the present and fresh air, Off down a pleasant thoroughfare. Happy that we wouldn’t have to see, What their life turned out to be. © Ernestine Northover