Exeunt Poem by Angus Wyman Macdonald

If you twist its handle 'round
The Door
though heavy
so lightly pivots on its hinge

Goes just in an arc
in motion yet stationary
forever confined to its circumference
shows where we might go

Let us move to the garden
where lat light
glows gold and true
reflecting deep within our inner rooms' wooden walls

To hind of magic and imagination
gliding between flowers branches leaves
leaving a lingering trace
of Love's perfume

Should this now be closed
who shows the wide world
how to make and end of Love
by staying shut?