I’d been walking up the muddy track for a while, 
beautiful vistas here and there 
coupled with a big drop off 
just metres next to me. 
Most things in life had that balance 
Between beauty and death. 
Up further along I had spotted 
A wooden thing 
Just stood there. 
It didn’t belong there 
Or at least not 
In a natural sense of the term. 
Unlike the flowers and trees that existed around it 
That for-one-reason-or-another, 
chose that particular spot 
to live out the rest of its life, 
this, 
had had no choice of its own. 
I mean how could it? 
An inanimate object as such, 
I can’t even say it chose to look the way it did. 
No, 
That was up to the designer 
or in this case, 
the wood worker. 

I was closer to it now 
the distance between it and I 
a matter of centimetres. 
A door. 
It was a door. 
A nice door at that, 
one that had patinaed 
and aged through 
its intended use. 
Unfortunately for this door, 
It had lost one key feature. 
Either, 
through the perils of time 
or the uncanny strength of one individual. 
Nevertheless, this door 
was undoubtedly missing a handle. 
In its place, 
a chain. 
A door, 
chained shut. 
Which as uninviting as that may seem, 
had a certain warmth about it. 
Like an old friend or relative. 
Maybe that was due to the backdrop, 
a cacophony of plants and branches that 
completely changed my perception of this piece of wood. 
If anything, 
this large piece of wood was cousins with 
the trees that grew beside it. 
The stone parked at the bottom of the door 
also did not add to the overall 
welcoming nature of this inanimate object. 
Yet again, 
it still filled me with warmth. 

I’d have loved to have met the owner. 
Not of the ground that lay behind the entrance, 
but to the opening itself. 
Of course, I would have asked him politely, 
Not knowing the nature of the man who owned this door. 
Although the chains and rock had 
suggested he wasn’t a friendly man, 
or that perhaps he was and that he was keeping 
those who were not so friendly, 
Out. 
Like most of us who live day-to-day, 
we can often feel misplaced. 
But when we do, 
we will often 
do something about it. 
On the other hand, 
this door, 
which in one way, 
can only be described as misplaced, 
simply must stand there, 
in its awkwardness and all. 
Unlikely to be opened, 
used, 
touched, 
man-handled. 
So if ever you are feeling 
Misplaced. 
Whether that be in a 
literal 
or 
metaphorical 
sense. 
Just be glad, 
you’re not this door.