Door 2
After John Weedon

Waiting for whatever confession you had to make when we were thirteen
I counted all the tiny panes that kept the wind from the sea-front chapel;
tried to make out the horse-hair thin lead that held them together, the stains

they made to the light on the red-tiled floor. I studied the door to the confessional,
wondering if the knarls and knolls were put there deliberately, or left behind
by generations of congregants; if this door, Narnia-like, was possessed

of empathetic magic; if its nails were dull because our sins were dull,
while elsewhere men kneel behind doors studded the azure blue they call the sky,
never dreaming of the heaven that greys upon us with sharp pewter nails.

Anne Welsh - Romford