A verdigris door –
the rain finds its way through the painted surface,
revealing the wooden frame.

The detail of the panelling
suggests carpentry
of another time.

Wood touched,
real.

The door stands on its hinges,
closed tight with weathered,
blustery pose.

The interior of the door
is currently unavailable;
like a lift out-of-order.

Its closedness says it all;
a silent turquoise soliloquy.
A psychedelia of reality,
presence to its contrary.

The air jaundiced with memory,
the door remains complete in its
absurd normality.

The more present the door appears,
the less the door isn’t there.

Leaves surround the door’s step;
paper-like, golden,
ochre, brown sugar shades.

Watching the doorway in search of a figure
in the literal;
but the literal is figurative.

Eyes are closed in
unmediated immersion.

The verdigris door
is a verdigris door.