Door, Door-to-Door

a poem by Roger B Rueda

The copse must once have
been burnished
and burgundy
but now it
develops whorls
of discoloured coat.
Bits and pieces
of shades
imprinted
into the small piece
turn round
like brandishes
across blanched covert
or flurry round
in whirlpools,
like shapes
on a plan,
the plan
of this tree’s
olden times.
Aged guardrail’s tattered
soft
by cohorts
of hide:
children’s
clammy palms bright
from the gelato shop
or warm parched palms
back from the ridges
where warm sand
cleaned them
and their lines
materialised
like the gritty
legend
of lumber itself.
Relations have been
told here and
will be
put in the picture
through countless day's ends.