Sweeping Away the Trove

There is a jumble in the loft
Layer on layer of dusty letters
Toys and hard-backed books from the eighties
A card for the two-year-old I once was
That is over-bright and cheery
Because that was the done thing
Then

There is junk in the attic
Tier on tier of musty jackets
Shoes and shoulder-pads from the nineties
A costume for the twelve-year-old I once was
That my Mum made out of scraps
Because that’s what people did
Then

There’s history under the roof
Pile on pile of fusty blankets
Files and study books from the noughties
An essay by the twenty-year-old I once was
That I copied out neatly by hand
Because that was how we wrote
Then

My recollections forged hot with those
Who raised me
Whose refuse is marked with the same dust
About to be swept away
By necessity

Strangely wistful to say farewell
To the debris
Of a youth painfully spent
The rubbish-trove of my adulthood
Is mine alone