In the hollow space under the stair
spiders breed all unaware
of an untrimmed door set in the wall
behind the paint, narrow and small.
This door opens on meadows bright –
even while the household sleeps at night –
or, perhaps, on rainy days
where water licks at stony quays,
and houses lean across canals,
and ships return from hunting whales;
or else, broaching lands of trolls,
cracks wide the face of hoary knoll.
In the pantry, by the box of bread
someone has a flashlight hid;
close by it, on upper shelves
is tucked away – a book of tales.
I say not who, I say not when
might journey to an hour’s end
from the hollow space under the stair –
and all the household unaware!
J. ALEKSANDR WOOTTON 