Their Door

I’m back at their door. I am looking at their door.
I am looking harder at their door than I have ever done.

Paint is curling from it. It looks like a lamb’s fleece.
The brass number 3 has not been polished for months.

I can only recognise part of myself in it. Who am I?
I am still looking at the door. Look, the fox

still holds his tail high and as usual, his claws
are ready to pounce and snatch. No point in knocking.

Now it is dusk and I am still outside, staring at the door.
Dew begins to light the grass with its tiny beacons but

not the door. I know I want to see the door open.
I know what I want to see behind the door because

I want to see two beaming faces with a look of me,
arms outstretched. I want to see two beaming faces

with the look of me, arms outstretched.
I know the door will not open but I‘m still here

standing on the doorstep in this cold, endless night.

- Pat Borthwick
Highly Commended Poet, The TRYangle Project Poetry Competition 2011