Through the looking glass.

The wooden boards that make the deck of the pier are old,
They are worn, and gnarled, and they are loose now,
They rattle and shake as we tread across them.
Through the gaps, and there are many gaps, we can see
Below, to the ever ebbing and flowing tide.
A knot has gone, left a hole, and there it is,
A chance to see the sea, to see it in a way that
It is not usually seen. That little bit of water
That swirls and eddies under the pier is usually
Hidden, out of sight, and seeing it now is like
Looking into another life, into someone's front
Room, when the curtains have been left open just enough.
Peeping though, we can glimpse where we might have been
If we had been able to get through the back of that wardrobe.
It does not matter that we can go back off the pier,
Down the steps and onto the beach, and that we can
Walk along and stand beneath the pier, and look up
And see the knot hole. For the land we walk to is not
The land that we can see when we look down.
They are two worlds. One is ours for the taking, and we live
In it and on it and through it; the other is the one that
Our imagination clothes in cloth of gold memory and
Dreams.

© 2ndwitch, 28/10/14

This poem
is for George and Alfred Bartlett, because I hope that they can see what I can see.