there is this house between lime trees
an old man with a black dog lives there
and on the collar it carries a bunch of keys
listen – a distant jingle in the cold night air
One key is black, the other made of silver,
one is of iron, one of wood and quicksilver,
one of rust, one of copper, one made of lies
one is made of sunshine, one of bottle flies
night falls with pallid light and heavy shadows
winter chill exhaled from the animal’s wet nose
the old man lights a candle and his dog sits
he arranges pebbles, buttons and wooden bits
his dry bony fingers poke at them on the table
trying to pick up a witch stone but unable
he smiles and tugs a key from the collar
the dog howls, saddened with dark dolor
its eyes glow, searching for his master’s face
searching for an impulse in time and space
The old man stands up bent, goes to the door
jams the key into the lock to turn it once more
the entrance door swings open, to let in the dark
the dog follows the living light ignited into spark
