A Pressed Flower

 

I had procrastinated for far too long

as it sat above the house hidden

to give it shape and additional room

Our loft was a chaotic storeroom

the unwanted added to the untidy

 

I climbed a rickety ladder aloft

into a cavern of perpetual darkness

with a solitary naked light bulb

With torch in hand I surveyed the scene

old suitcases, cardboard boxes and a hat stand

piles of knitting patterns and cobwebs

 

The beam of my torch rested on an old trunk

the type no longer used but collectable

or so I am told. A musty dark receptacle

I rearranged the chaos to recover this object

with help I managed to hoist it bellow

where my family awaited intrigued

 

Inside I found relics of my childhood

an atlas, school books and my school uniform cap

a set of encyclopedia and a fireplace companion set

Ties, sleeveless pullovers and a catapult

alongside a school scarf and broken gas mask

I found my first and only Bible

 

Inside the front cover I read the words

"From Nanna and Granda December 1955"

I recalled opening this on a  Christmas years before

I read Psalm 100 as a random choice

and there between the pages I dicovered a

pressed flower, a buttercup I had once placed there