The Mystery Of The Key Poem by Mark Heathcote

See, there's an old key here. 'Is it useless? '
Did it lead to somewhere quite glamorous?
'Who can tell? ' Look around. What did it fit?
Such secrets withheld evidence, not omit.
Ah, it's captivating. 'I here do admit.'

Could it have opened the gates to a palace?
'It could have; it's sure heavy enough, I guess.
'Could it have unlocked some jailor's handcuffs? '
Or been used as a skeleton key by assassins:
'Slow your horses' (Hercule Poirot) don't digress.

Pick it up and hold it up to the light;
Does it have any markings, 'words, or numbers? '
No, none that I can see or discover.
Then followed a hushed silence; the air was sombre.
Aa a hand rises from the subsoil like clarified butter.