For years you have practised sitting meditation at this
solid, long limbed, tall as an ancient oak, door
imagining what it would be like
to cradle a cast iron promise
to toy with the possibility
to hold the key
that will raise the pins, create a shear line,
allow movement, and then entry.
You have it now
and measure the weight of it.
Caress and fondle it.
Slide indulgent fingers.
Up and down.
You trace the throat and the collar
feel for the deep grooves on the nose,
where the front limb bends slightly in
towards the centre cut of the bit.
You have been a locksmith in waiting
learning how a key and a lock
work and wear together.
This lock was strongly made:
there is complex warding, double tumblers
and sliders arranged for maximum security;
it has withstood neglect.
You place the heart bow on your lips.
You exert firm pressure as the blade
enters the gate of the keyway
and compromises
an ancient inner sanctum.
You stand at the threshold. Here is the view
you waited for; what you wanted.
This is what you will find.
© Sophia Roberts
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