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.