Door (Poetry)

Just this side of nearly here
there runs a narrow seam
the edge of now is tailing off
to almost inbetween
a limboland when midnight strikes
the second long and thin
that has no name but stretches wide
its hollow-sounding ring.

A door, imagined, stands ajar
with shadows sliding through
and time is lingering unsure
which boundaries are true
the light is dim, the pannelled wood
is carved with living runes
that morph and ripple in the grain
while hinges creak out tunes...

Dark air rolls in across the step
sharp and strange with smells
it carries heavy on its back
a history of spells
and all hangs poised upon the brink
the clocks forever keep
their faces turned towards the door
to see the moment creep.