The woodwork's musty as the russet smell of old burnt toast and almonds.
The feather-hands of the falcon-clock have stopped.
There are no sounds, except the old creaking rocking-throne that stands in a corner(still rocking, for kings and queens have ghosts called Histories).
Ends of cowboys' cattle-brands hang on a wall.
The table's one leg bends like a toad-stool stalk.
The magician never mends his old things.
He never sends them to auction-sales, bazaars or jumble-sales.
Indeed, he intends to keep his attic cluttered with peaceful rubbish quieter than islands.
The air is still with the dust of grated diamonds.
The feather-hands of the falcon-clock have stopped.
He finds old things are good for games of memories, and sometimes he stands for hours staring at wands for this is where he keeps them, old, splintered, broken, worn-out wizard wands.