The Door

 

The Door

 

A sullen crew,

Hot and worn from long labor,

Now rested in the hole,

Scraped in the side of the mountain,

The hole with the impossible door at the end,

The door that was right where he said it should be.

The captain of these ruffians was erranding.

None could speak on the hour of his return,

Not even the cook’s son,

A madman, and captain’s ward.

 

The door.

Disturbing symbols were carved on that stone,

Disturbing not because they could not be read,

But because it seemed they could be understood,

Almost,

But the mind would not accept their meaning.

Thus these rowdies would not lounge near on it,

For fear of lingered spell,

Made on it in some forgotten when,

Save that cook’s son, captain’s ward,

And madman.

 

That one stood before the entry closed,

Tracing the writing with a finger,

Which was unnerving,

And whispered to himself guessed meaning,

Which was maddening,

And sometimes giggled and turned pointing,

And would wink at them,

Which was terrifying.

For on a time the most of them had tweaked him,

Pinching or punching,

Tripping him unawares,

Or soiling his food,

Captain’s ward,

And madman.

 

Then behind silent came the captain,

And eager-eyed advanced on the door,

And consulting the cook’s son,

Together puzzling out rune and rune,

Chiding, correcting, confirming,

Sign upon sign until

Springs open the door like a popped cork,

Released it seemed after long pressure.

Within, a promised lost palace,

Enriching all.

 

Now do the brutes crowd in to the chambers,

Now do they light torches and search dark holes,

Now do they venture far within,

Now do two men slowly close the stone door,

Now do they seal it shut,

Now do they close it on a band of bullies,

Now do they take their leave,

Captain and ward,

And madmen.

 

Cliff Lake 4/9/2024

Copyright © Clifford Lake