Door

There's a door Handle's cold Made of iron & brass And this door it used to lead Into what is now my past If you were to have opened this door It would have lead you on to a floor Where my mother had played almost 50 years before Nuts & bolts galore Croquet balls in drawers Badminton nets & racquets All Frank's undergarments Walls get built where once there weren't any there Locks get locked & door knobs fall off Wood-carved roads, chip-rock rues, so turn the screws But the weasel of my heart