The Key
I looked for the key
in many kinds of water;
bright creeks with sandstone floors,
dark, ferry-churned harbours.I looked for the key
in bookshops on rainy days,
in a whispering forest of stringybarks,
in all sorts of bottles.I looked for the key
in museums, in cello cases.
I looked desperately between rocks
on a barren Greek island.I thought the key would be bronze,
covered in ancient characters.
I always pictured myself
holding it in both hands.Then I wondered if the key
mightn't be the little silver one
dangling from my daughter's bracelet -
Or maybe not physical at all?Perhaps a certain set of notes
whistled on a chilly, starry night.
A phrase, whispered into the right ear
opening everything -
