The Attic

In here there has never been light.

As I open the trapdoor

I am lifting a darkened weight.



Pressed flowers on my dress

hung up from a beam,

to find and recall,

my fingers run down it like hair.



Pale lace at the hem shifts

as its colour seeps back,

into a girl who spun around.

She is gently unravelled.



What was once my light,

is now a hardened centre,

but as I take it down,

flecks of dust rise and fall



and like tiny puppets

they dance in the light.