Poetry is the key
To open doors inside my mind;
The cluttered cupboard swings open
Releasing hoarded memories in a crashing cascade
Of almost unwanted and not quite forgotten objects,
Complete confusion once supressed behind shut wood
Has erupted and lies in a heap for all to see.
The next door leads outside
To a cold and barren landscape,
A skeletal tree with no leaves
Shakes as wind whistles and weaves
Between branches reaching forlornly
Towards a glimmer which might be the sun.
Down a dark corridor to the last door
Swathed in shadows, eerily quiet
The key clicks in the lock,
I nudge the door open and see the light
Trickle in, feel warm sun on my skin
As I step onto a green lawn with a low stone wall
I sit down and survey my surroundings;
It is peaceful, alone but not lonely,
Because I remember the words you said under the trees that day
And the new certainty that I could find my way.
Copyright © Abi Morgan