Beyond the fourteen chalky stepping stones
That forced a ragged turn up through a sea
Of ivy green, the washroom stood alone,
A southern sentry, camouflaged by trees
On one side, cows and clothesline on the other,
Bruised veteran of all the weather wars,
Proudly showing off its naked colors
To the once whitewashed garage next door.
I don’t remember when the room retired,
But washing traded places with the house,
And all too soon each empty space acquired
Its wealth and sat as silent as a mouse
Trap, calmly waiting with its precious bait
Of furs and feathers, flags and books encased
Behind its dragging door. The world could wait –
I had a cache of mysteries to taste!