There is a secret
Beneath the floor,
Under the soil,
Within the bag.
It has been there
Half a century
And no one has thought
To look.
It is not hidden.
The hatch with the great
Steel ring stands out square
Against the boards.
It is seen every day
By feet that polish wood,
Over time.
Perhaps tomorrow
Or the day after,
The feet will stop,
Knees will bend,
Haunches squat,
And hands reach out.
Perhaps tomorrow
Or the day after,
The hatch will rise,
Soil move,
And the bag expel its load -
My load.
The secret,
The thing I did
When I was young.
February 2020
COMMENTARY:
I started this poem after getting an image in my head of the trapdoor behind the counter in the shop from Open All Hours - don't ask me why, it was just there for some reason. I used to watch the show when I was a kid with my family, but it's not something I normally think about. I then thought trapdoors lead to cellars, and cellars can be used to hide things, like secrets.
Kat.