Our Writing Group challenge was to envisage a door, real or imaginary, and to describe what we see through it. I wrote of memories of my mother making jams in the kitchen.
The door ajar stands still yet strange
no name, no number, no sign remains.
The handle creeks, the hinges groan
the wind surrounds a soft sweet moan
the light escapes, the heat abounds
the clamour, clanking, busy sounds
the clinking glass, the dripping bag
the buzz of bees gone slightly mad
jell set stiff, sweet berry flavoured
Jam of heaven forever savoured
© Sheila Ash 29th February 2016