Attic ulating, up the words I climb
in slippered undulating rhyme and
stop, unlock the heavy door, a key
to sticky notes before, and there
in chests the best are laid, the odd
and old and folded, saved, unsaid
they fester in the gloom, their spell
a chrysalis too soon. Ah what to take
and plunder? Through asundered parts
I blunder, scattering pasts in tissue
screams, all tip and topple, broken
dreams in dust and dappled light are
held again, and one, it might not
be a pretty thing, will be a moth
and from my midnight pen take wing.


Published by

Julia Dean-Richards

Julia is a writer and performer living in the Shropshire hills. Her writing is a product and expression of the love she has found whilst journeying through the most difficult times of her life.

15 thoughts on “Moth”

  1. There is an enchantment to old attics. Best if they are from ones family…but I’ve watched a few home shows to know how so much is abandoned when some just get up and leave for what ever reasons that seemed quite rational at the time.

    Do visit with a link to that thread of an idea I may have lead you to.
    Perhaps I’ll think on it as well…and we can compare our weaving?

  2. Stunning, dear Julia…simply stunning! I love the poem and I adore the novel layout. Brilliant! ‘And there in chests the best are laid, the odd and old and folded…’ It simply sings…

please feel free to comment on these poems - all feedback appreciated. :)

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