The Zanzibar Door

Flowers, birds and fishes twine around the open door.

Golden points of polished brass stand guard on passing time. Scent of age is buried deep in must-damp wood.

The eye casts through the door and flicks away again. The glimpting glance records a picture black on white: against a sun-bleached wall a flung out cloak; a narrow wrist, a woman’s hand.