4 Hope Lane by Andrew Senior

In this grain there is a waterfall,
a ploughed field, a ravine;
some deep dark hidden, secret depths.

In homage lines like branches spread.
A sunrise. Endless pathways
fanning out to knotted animal eyes.

Whole worlds found in this grain
that is pulling away
where water has found a way between.

Beset with nails. The thick smell
of creosote stains left by
your heavy handed brushing.

A pale outline, the imparting
of your departed number,
a triumph of sunlight and dirt withstood.

Your impenetrable heartwood. Splintering
where the hinge is working loose.
Creaks aside, long bereft

of your oily applications.

Andrew Senior lives in Sheffield, UK with his wife and three children and writes whenever he can find the time to do so: poems, short stories and essays. His writing frequently confronts loss and seeks hope. More of his published work can be seen at: https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/.