Mosaic

Who had fashioned our mosaic floor?
When we bought the house the floor was hidden, who would have imagined such a treasure beneath our feet?
We were poor then, back in the sixties, in love and quivering with a desire known only to the hungry of heart. You see, love for us had crept in by the back door of our hearts. It was as unexpected as a frown and as welcome as a dragonfly in summer.
I remember the house was old, cold and full of neglect, but sturdy. We cast off the staleness of our London bedsits as we threw ourselves into restoration. We rejoiced in finding original handprints from sacred unknown craftsmen. We saved the dusty clay pipes, old baccy tins and tiny leather baby shoes, laughingly storing them all away in an old chocolate box. But the mosaic floor! Broken in places but iridescent in green and gold, lying like a memorial garden with a story all of its own. In the centre of the floor, a strange winged creature. Where was it flying to? Who knew then what mystery would unfold as the professionals with their tiny pickaxes, their cameras and their hushed excited jargon moved in on the excavation?
We were naïve then. In a praiseworthy mood our benevolent eyes searched their faces. Pink faces full of winking eyes which relflected back our questions.
Unanswered.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule