No Man's Land
I'd been cleaning out the attic
And the gables in the roof,
Which were dusty, full of cobwebs
And a horror, tell the truth,
There were boxes, wooden chests
And mouldy papers overall,
'Til the ceiling couldn't take it,
It was bowed, about to fall.
So we shunted all this detritus
Until it filled the space
We had cleared on the landing
To gain access to the place,
'What on earth are we to do with it? '
My wife said in despair,
'We'll have to burn the lot, ' I said,
'Except that old box chair.'
I remembered the old box chair
From my Grandad's, Arthur Oates,
It was taken from a hallstand
Where we'd hung our hats and coats,
It was made of polished oak, and sat
So proudly, just inside,
My father must have brought it home
When my Grandfather died.
Later, when we'd finished sorting,
Burning, and so on,
I lifted up the lid to see
What treasures I had won,
My gas mask from the second war
That looked like Mickey Mouse,
Was sitting still within that box,
So many years had passed.
I tipped out scarves and ancient gloves
That still lay buried there,
My sister's broken China Doll
The type that had no hair,
And at the bottom, going brown
And brittle, somewhat dank,
My Grandad's faded diary,
With Number, Name and Rank.
I read it through that very night,
I sat there in the gloom,
And there the 'War to End all Wars'
Unfolded in my room,
It left me pensive, sitting there
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poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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