Door, I have knocked, pushed,

licked and, for a year, stroked

your veins smooth as varnish.

My knuckles are hard, black beetles.

We were children first

when I saw your blue sway

into a cottage on the coast.

Each day the repetitive,

constant sea sneaking close.

Door, you have been painted many things;

argument red, family yellow, divorce brown.

I too have been locked and pushed

shut, hung on frames and forced to gaze

through creaking day and slamming night,

at the parked silver car and children

high on birch. Door, I too have stared

at my own brass, have become wood

and squeaked with need. Weathered, pale,

but still here. So we can peer through gloam

and into each other, honest as hinge

and nail, can open and call this home.


First published in The Year Of Open Doors 2010.