The Old Red Door

I passed an old church, yesterday, of rough-hewn stones.
Of granite gray, each brick had been laid in with care,
But through the years they’d become slightly lichen-grown.

All the windows high and low had been enclosed
With wooden shutters, tightly fitted and secure.
In silence and gray mystery the church reposed.

But on the north, a wooden door of deepest red
Did beckon me to contemplate what lay within.
And without conscious thought right to it I was led.

I pondered on the stories this old red door could tell.
And though the steps that led to it were now long gone,
I worked to get inside so as to explore things well.

It’s roughened texture spoke of years of weathering,
But all my efforts to make entry were in vain.
Alas … I’ll have to leave its past to imagining.

 

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photo: Terry Valley at Visions Seen Photography

 

 

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