The World of Leonardo Morgado

I’ve been exploring my parents’ loft in an attempt to rescue various items before my mum decides to discard them to the nearest municipal rubbish tip.

The loft is akin to a rather old abandoned library as there are piles of books in every corner and trying to decide what to keep and what to give away is not an easy process.

The sight of yellowing pages and the smells of the past makes it difficult not to reminisce and every item triggers a memory of an event long gone. An old school report appears and I smile when I read what my ex-teachers wrote about me. “Could do better” is a comment that is often repeated and it will probably be my epitaph on my tombstone. Old comic books that are so torn and tatty that it’s a wonder that they’ve not gone to a home for no longer read comic books.

Truly embarrassing things are also discovered like my scribbles as a young man attempting to be poet. In all honesty these attempts are mind-numbingly awful and I suppose it’s a phase that all people must go through before achieving a modicum of maturity.

There is a real sense of exploring my past when I’m in my parents’ loft and in a strange way it allows me to find a harmony between the person I was and the person I am now.

Here is an example of the kind of thing I used to write as a young man. Dear God.

Names carved on oak trees in parks

young dreams and hopes battered by time,

faded into memory by sun, wind and rain.

Words once true and kind now stained.