The Oak Door

Here I wait
to know my fate
outside this door of oak.
Heavy hinges wrought of iron
a knocker brass; a snarling lion
How many stood, like me, before
this panelled, polished oaken door?

One autumn past
an acorn cast
to start this door of oak.
On fertile ground that seedling lay
to grow more sturdy day on day
That fragile shoot was destined for
this panelled, polished oaken door.

Beside the lake
it grew to make
the timber for this door of oak.
Ever reaching for the sky
as seasons of the year rolled by
An embryo from forest floor
this panelled, polished oaken door

And now a tree
grown carefully
to make this door of oak.
Perhaps two hundred years ago
that tree did in some forest grow.
Felled with axe and trimmed with saw,
this panelled, polished oaken door

Two centuries gone
now tall and strong
and destined for the door of oak.
A woodcutter who knew its worth
would fell it down upon the earth
The flying axe it would endure,
this panelled, polished oaken door

Two horses came
to haul with chain,
the timber for this door of oak
Dismember, trim and then discard
Forgotten in a timber yard
to season there until mature
this panelled, polished oaken door.

Now heaved to sit
above the pit
the lumber for this door of oak
Two sawyers stiff and sorely wracked
A dozen boards soon neatly stacked.
Then there remained one process for
this panelled, polished oaken door

So to the carpenter
sawn boards transfer
to craft this door of oak
The timber measured, planed and cut
each joint a firm and neat abut  
A skilful task of love, not chore
this panelled, polished oaken door 

“Come in”,
invites the voice within,
heard through this door of oak.
All notions of its past creation
dispelled by looming revelation. 
Brief, sweet respite it did restore,
this panelled, polished oaken door.