Cellar door

We don’t know what’s behind the cellar door.
The door’s still closed.  It’s locked, I trust.
I wind to top the stairs and smell its spore
of fust. I’m loath to sound that cellar door,
afraid to hear its scrape across the floor.
It raps old bone to wood, dispersing dust.
I never want to see the cellar door.
The door’s still closed.  It’s locked, I trust.

Susan de Sola

If you have any comments on this poem, Susan de Sola  would be pleased to hear from you.