The Door

by Charles Tomlinson

Too little 
has been said 
of the door, its one 
face turned to the night’s 
downpour and its other 
to the shift and glisten of firelight. 
  
Air, clasped 
by this cover 
into the room’s book, 
is filled by the turning 
pages of dark and fire 
as the wind shoulders the panels, or unsteadies that burning 
  
Not only 
the storm’s 
breakwater, but the sudden 
frontier to our concurrences, appearances, 
and as the full of the offer of space 
as the view through a cromlech is. 
  
For doors 
are both frame and monument 
to our spent time, 
and too little 
has been said 
of our coming through and leaving by them.