To Another Day

As the last rays of the days dying sun arrive through the loft window
I heave away at the blankets, toys and bric-a-brac that filled our life.
The dust, now rising and falling, showers me in embers from the fire of long ago.
Reaching into the corner I feel the box’s edge and pull harder,
Unwillingly it slides towards me, creaking and groaning with the weight.
I blow hard and even more dust is drawn to the ceiling and beyond,
Why I wait so long before opening is measured in birdsong from outside.
The lid, hinged each side with copper studded metal plates, slides effortlessly up
Remaining open at the designated angle of the craftsman who made it.
The wooden box, standing in the half-light, is worn, cracked and feels ice cold.
My hand, involuntarily raised to my face, stroking my nose between thumb and forefinger
A moment’s hestitation my senses allow so that I can collect my thoughts
I see wedding and christening albums that I am afraid to touch
Dampness fills my nostrils from the envelopes of happy-snap negatives now cascading.
Strange to think of relatives mingling this way, though centuries apart.
With the sun almost departed I am left in deepest, darkest shadow staring into the past.
I pull the lid towards me and let it fall once more.


2 thoughts on “To Another Day

  1. Well said. And reading it kicks up some dust in my mind as well. A lot of dust. Also a reminder of how thick that dust becomes over the years. (Which no doubt accounts for my growing resistance to disturbing it.)

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