A KNOCK AT THE DOOR

It’s late I know, but I’ve been poetry-tweaking. It’s possibly my favourite bit of the process! My idea is that once written, a poem should be left alone, left to brew like a pot of Darjeeling, and then eventually, tweaked. I do it often - change a word, refit the scheme, swap something out for something better. It’s a sort of a polish, where eventually you get a glint of something magical or deep. You can’t do it straight away; you need fresh eyes. You need to let the pot brew.

Anyway. I tweaked this one today. I wanted to create a picture I’d not experienced or known, but could still imagine - I know I run the risk of naivety there. I could tell you what I did imagine in order to write it; what I think is going on, but I think this is one of those ones that ought to be interpreted by you. Sometimes those are the best ideas, left open-ended, ready for the story of how it makes you feel.

It was fast to write (all my poems are preposterously short) but the tweaking of the thing took a whole lot longer. And that, like a fresh cup of well-timed, quickly poured Darjeeling, is absolutely fine with me. 

A Knock At The Door

A cup of tea in a bay window

Beyond the chiming clock

His footsteps up the path, I know:

That breath before the knock

A briefcase under the overcoat

Now over the sudden rain:

A trilby, sternly kept afloat,

Official, black, and plain

The cup and the saucer reunite

With porcelain redoubt

I move from the window’s summer light,

Breathe in and slowly out

The clock still ticks on the mantelpiece

As always, and before

But one world starts and one must cease

Beyond that opened door