Poem in the view of a door, who has dark and disturbing thoughts/experiences |
I was the heart of the Grammar School, the very first impression its name proudly hand carved upon my chest. I'm not sure how old I was back then; one would assume I should remember - but I don't. I loved my job. I would be inviting towards children, whose blazers were accompanied with scarves in winter and red faces and shorts in Summer. They would smile at me; whilst gripping my arms for support caressing and touching my body with their sticky little fingers. It was winter, I know that because I watched the children's breathes slide out of their mouths, and could feel the warmth of the school behind me. Something was wrong. It was too hot for the winter, and panicked hands prodded and punched and pounded for me to open, and to let them free. I could smell the fire before I saw it - it seaped into my grain, cooking me from the inside out. Smoked wood never tasted so delightful. Their small arms thumped into me, not realising I was bolted. One boy discovered their downfall and escaped, taking other boys with him. The hero. It was the wind, they say, that slammed me shut afterwards - and the heat of my handle, they say, that stopped more from eloping into safety. The invisible hand prints that gripped can still be felt across my back, each one making me smile, if I could; their touches with me forever. I woke from the fire several years later, proudly guarding a block of flats. These kids aren't as polite as they used to be, but they are still children. |