By Jo Syz

An ancient attic lies
untouched, save my six paces
across a dead skin carpet,
flowing sun dappled
to the crumbling eaves.
A dry moth hangs twisting,
rustled by air drifting
through plaster cracks.
The wall’s time scarred blue flowers
reveal faded gold leaf
as tiny sounds in silence
seep inwards;
a minute wing beats
on heat hazed glass.
the drone of bees float
from a shadowed honeycomb,
the sigh of oak settling
in the sun’s shifting light.
Golden pools slip
across the wooden floor
which once echoed
your familiar footfall.
Yet the moon rises,
white against azure sky,
and glinting dust sparks
will settle
to their natural motion
with my leaving.