The Door
I had not been that way before,
Walking through an enchant wood,
Pushing aside the dense undergrowth
A clearing appeared, overgrown
With nettles, meadow sweet and tansy
Entwined with brambles and sweet briers,
In this tangle lay the ruins
Of a humble cottage, roofless
Its walls crumbled to heaps of stone.
The only part standing complete,
The porch and a solid oaken door:
Though ivy covered, this entrance
Had stood the ravages of time
As if it had, in some strange way
Waited for a long-lost family
Remembering a careful wife?
Who would in the morning sunlight
Shake the dust from her hallway mats?.
Where now the children, running free?
And did that khaki clad father
Return to see his family?
How long could the old door remain
To keep these memories alive?
Sadly I turned and left that place,
Leaving the old, sad haunted door.
To drift into oblivion
I never trespassed there again.
©Arthur F Mylam
