In Life's Attic

On this shelf there is snow:
Watching it fall silently in a night
Blue as stained glass,
Touching my face gentle as moth's wings,
Melting on woollen mittens.

There lie puddles and the smell of mud:
My mother at the kitchen sink,
Sidling past her so she wouldn't see
My spattered socks.

Here is the box where we go to the sea:
I read the map but you turn early
And blame me
Until I am in tears and you stroke my cheek.
We were ridiculous, and yet
Unlatch the lid and my heart would still break.

I revisit the past hoping to reignite the spark
That once was between us.
Each time the box is opened
More of the memory escapes,
As a flower's scent fades with each inhalation.

The feelings of the moment cling
Like lichen to unreadable stone
And wrapt the past in present resentment.
To release one is to free the other.
No, preserve the past, and let the dust lie.

Published in Norwich Writers Anthology 2011