doormats 26.5.2013


I have a doormat which sits at my door,
It says welcome, come in even if you’re poor,
Once you’re inside hospitality is offered,
Courtesy extended and respect a given,

The feet that cross the doormat are varied in size,
Some wearing shoes a sandal or some hide,
Some have light footsteps some drag on the floor,
All sharing one aim to get into the warm,

When they cross the threshold the carpet they do feel,
It’s soft and silky and works with their heel,
Some will languish in its colour and dig in their toes,
Some will want to change that floor matching it with their shoes,

The years they do pass the doormat it does labour,
Each passing footstep leaving its mark,
Not all for the better and some for the worse,
Imprints now visible, changes enforced,

This welcoming doormat was once shiny white,
But now it’s all grubby and lacking delight,
Its message was wholesome, its intention divine,
But ultimately it got stepped on and somewhat defiled,

So where is that doormat that once welcomed you in?
It’s forgotten and lonely and sitting in a bin

Michelle Cadby 26.5.2013


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