The Secret Door

In the high stone wall, a secret door.
Who holds the key, and do they care
that I stand outside
and stare in wonder, and wonder where
it can lead?

Beyond the trees in a tangle of branches
is there a house, a hut, a home?
Close to the coast,
did it open to smugglers
long ago?

Perhaps I'll walk there after dark
and knock on the door and rattle the lock
till somebody comes.

If I don't return then look for me there
where the key-holder lurks
behind the wall
through the secret, leafy, lonely door.

Or will you come with me;
will you come, too?

poem © Celia Warren 2011

For years and years, I've wanted to photograph this door and never got round to it. Then, a few months ago, I drove past to see the old, shabby door had been removed and the gap had been boarded up. I'd missed my chance.

Then, just the other day, as I drove past, I glimpsed a gaping hole in the wall, where the boards had been. On my return, this new door was in place. Anyone who knows the hairpin bend on the sharp hill between Strete and Strete Gate will understand why I could only catch a brief look as I passed in the car. So, I still don't know what lies behind the door.

The George VI letter box, set into the wall, must be used regularly, though, as I have often seen a post van parked outside. Today, I pulled up in the same spot and took this photo. You have to take the chance while you can; it could be a magic door and disappear altogether tomorrow! (Have I been writing for children too long, do you think?!)