by Siobhan Regan, with commentary from Jess Phillips
I love my little attic room atop the spiral stair.
Full of musty books and hidden truths,
no one disturbs me there.
It’s mine, I say, and mine alone,
a place to rest my head and think
of days gone by, and what could have been
for I cannot sleep a wink.
In later months, the cold sets in,
my scattered tears turn to snow.
Through howling winds, thick rafters screech
that they’ll crush me in one blow.
But you can’t, I say, I’m part of you now –
the room and I are one.
From the day the rope slipped round my neck
our marriage vow was done.
Sometimes I dare to ask the dark
who it is you hold at night?
No scream will break what holds me here
now that my feet have taken flight.
You’re mine, I say, and mine alone.
Isn’t that what you once said?
So, my love, does that deal still stand
even now that I am dead?
I love my little attic room, I never want to leave.
Soon you’ll come back and see a sight
to end your sweet reprieve.