We
all have a box or something like a box, perhaps more than one, filled with old
keys to vaguely remembered locks, old coins, paper clips, the combinations to
lock thrown away years ago, extra screws for the floor lamp we bought at Target
(some assembly required). Rather useless stuff, really, but we can’t quite
bring ourselves to throwing it all away. Something might be hidden away among
the jungle.
Those
Sleeping
Keys constitute the subject of the title poem in poet Jean Sprackland’s new collection,
published earlier this year:
Printed
with old roses or tartan and thistle,
there’s
a biscuit tin like this in every house.
Prise
off the lid and catch the flinty scent
of
old keys, decommissioned and sleeping.
To continue reading, please see my post
today at Tweetspeak Poetry.
Photograph by amateur pic via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
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