The Door

I was the heart of the Grammar School,
the very first impression
its name proudly hand carved upon my chest.
I'm not sure how old I was back then;
one would assume I should remember -
but I don't.
I loved my job. I would be inviting towards
children,
whose blazers were accompanied with
scarves in winter
and red faces and shorts in Summer.
They would smile at me; whilst gripping my
arms for support
caressing and touching my body with their
sticky little fingers.

It was winter, I know that
because I watched the children's breathes
slide out of their mouths,
and could feel the warmth of the
school behind me.
Something was wrong. It was too hot
for the winter,
and panicked hands
prodded and punched and
pounded for me to open, and to
let them free.
I could smell the fire before I saw it -
it seaped into my grain,
cooking me from the inside out.
Smoked wood never tasted so delightful.

Their small arms thumped
into me,
not realising I was bolted.
One boy discovered their downfall
and escaped, taking other boys with him.
The hero.
It was the wind, they say,
that slammed me shut afterwards -
and the heat of my handle, they say,
that stopped more from eloping into safety.
The invisible hand prints that
gripped can still be felt across
my back,
each one making me smile, if I could;
their touches with me forever.

I woke from the fire several years later,
proudly guarding a block of flats.
These kids aren't as polite as they used to be,
but they are still children.