Door

There's a door

Handle's cold

Made of iron & brass

And this door it used to lead

Into what is now my past

If you were to have opened this door

It would have lead you on to a floor

Where my mother had played almost 50 years before

Nuts & bolts galore

Croquet balls in drawers

Badminton nets & racquets

All Frank's undergarments

Walls get built where once there weren't any there

Locks get locked & door knobs fall off

Wood-carved roads, chip-rock rues, so turn the screws

But the weasel of my heart

Late at night unlocks the lock

Walks thru the wall

Sits down with my mother & plays a game of ball

Nuts & bolts galore

Croquet balls in drawers

Badminton nets & racquets

All Frank's undergarments

There's a door

Handle's cold

Used to lead me into what is now my past