A first draft.

DOORS

There’s much to be said
for the well-made door.
This one, smoked black
by time, hangs like

a heavyweight, shuffles
through its quarter-turn
singing deep of the long
years, of the conspiracy

of oak and iron: studs
and hinges, chamfered
panels, bolts and latch.
Speaking too of what

it is to witness, dumb,
deaf and blind, the
carnival passage of
the unwary child who

swings in passing, left
hand yielding to right,
fingers round the circle
handle, intimate, even

loving for that moment
that she dances out of
dimness into brilliant
light, every candle in

the hall a celebrant.
People turn and smile
then turn away and the
candles gutter, each

in its turn, sending up
a thread of smoke
towards the unregarded
ceiling, the vaulting beams

high above, black with
smoke and time. And
the door stands ajar,
poised in its prescribed

journey, something of the
dusk of the outer chamber
tainted by the dying
light beyond. This until

the old man, remembering
the book he left behind,
lifts a burning candle high
and – slow, a little

circumspect, but certain –
steps from waning light
into the dark beyond
and shuts the door.