The Knock Upon the Door (Knockers)

Lyrics

The key turns in the lock.
A scrape of iron.
The lapidary's workshop smells of damp stone and last week's work.
Saturday. Eight o'clock.

The oak door is heavy. Two hands to push it closed.
And on the outside, two voices wait.
One is a simple curve of brass, a plain striker.
Cold to the touch.
I take out the soft cloth, the dented tin of Brasso.
The sharp smell that cuts the air.
A small circle, again and again.
Rubbing the salt-air tarnish away.
My fingers feel the chill leave the metal.

The other is a lion.
His face is serious. His mane is worn smooth in places.
A heavy ring hangs from his mouth.
I polish his nose until I can see my own face in it.
A small, distorted face.
I use the little wire brush for the grooves around his eyes.
He looks surprised to be so clean.
He looks ready to roar, but silently.

Saturday morning, for the knockers.
One plain, one proud.
The cloth turns grey with the week's dust.
The brass turns gold under my hands.
Useful, Pemba says. And beautiful.
A bright welcome on a dark door.
This is the work of the knockers.

Pemba told us a story once.
Polishing brass on a Saturday keeps the bad luck out.
I don't know if that's true.
There's no maker's mark on the back.
No name from a foundry in 1895.
Just the weight of them in my mind.
Thinking of all the hands that have lifted the ring.
All the knuckles that have struck the plate.
Before us.

Now they are shining.
The lion and the curve.
My hands smell of metal and oil.
The door is ready.
Let them knock.