When I first knew you I had to write.
Only through pen and paper could I express what was on my heart.
To pour out my heart.
But as time passed I thought no-one wanted to hear.
I saw my notebook and pen on the desk,
took them and shut them in the drawer.
The wooden shack stands on the shore of the lake.
Half in, half out.
Supported on its stilts it is neither of
one world nor the other.
It bridges between worlds.
I remember the times
when in the quiet and not so quiet of life
I would hear your quiet knock.