When we are young the world sees us differently.
We are viewed through kinder eyes, words spoken softly,
gentle to our tender ears.
Colours seems more lucid, more vivid and perhaps a shade too real.
Objects carry stories, meaning present only to the young;
names are attached, the world is ensouled.
And so it was with the hatch. Logic was lacking but
imagination rife. Where did it lead, could there be a tunnel?
Could there be a secret lair, a kingdom awaiting discovery?
These things are truth to the child. They are as real as rain,
as honest as the breath of the wind on rosy cheeks.
As years pass so does belief in faery, in magic, in truth and trust.
But still young, decision is made to open the hatch, it cannot be so;
reality would grunt “It isn’t a door, it’s a floorboard” but neither is
this true; it is locked, a key or password needed to
access danger and thrill beyond. Keys are tried after a
keyhole is cut with a sharpened butter knife. To no avail;
whatever lies beyond is powerful.
We never gave up, keys came in many shapes,
many objects. Stone, wood, bone and metal all failed.
And then we moved away, leaving the mystery for others to
solve; chalk messages scrawled under the carpet for children to follow.
Arrows drawn and danger! recorded. So to the next house,
new adventures waited unseen but not undreamt to the child’s mind.
To be young again, to see the places a door may lead
is blessing the writer can conjure.
Once more that hatch sits uneasy, unexplored land beyond.
Open the door to a world of belief, shut out doubters, the cynics,
for beyond lies that place we once dreamt of, a safe place,
warm and of your choosing.