The Secret

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



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.



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