“It’s dangerous business walking out your front door” J.R.R. Tolkien
of our scarce
and clear attention onto
Train’s tracking north
when he spots barren trees,
feels an ancient pang
- the missing of a special child.
Even disconnected – like the coldest
winter twigs - he hangs on – and hopes
another summer comes and melts the ice
on hard converging tracks.
Alone, in time and space,
one glance of hares in spring,
the sound of a child laughing,
could dissolve his eyes
and turn rails - left and right -
– out, away – and back - into a beating heart.
Today I walked past loads of doors
and, do you know, I had an urge
to reach and turn every handle;
see what lurks on the other side.
Something within us loves
hidden rooms, locked;
a key, a push, a creak,
a prisoner running free,
when earth turns;
doors will bolt,
locked like clams,
onto watery dreams.