The Key

Along the back of our house runs an unpaved alleyway,

wriggling out an existence in the gap between 

the backgardens and the allotments beyond.

a scrubby, overgrown, wasteland sort of place.

Sometimes it feels like a country lane,

at others it is downright strange.

People at twilight appear out of the bramble bushes

in bizarre costumes, they always say hello in a familiar way 

but have disappeared into the unlit gloom as you turn back to look.

I once wrote a poem about it called The Alley Way Between The Worlds, 

but I’ve lost the poem. Lost or misplaced or whisked away by those pesky fairies. 

Bella Basura 2013