GATES - - with misplaced names, Mountain View, Green Vistas, Argyll, Clare, look out on mallee, rutted roads and dust. - that weaken hinges and need lifting when they're opened, dragging where a scraping rail cuts quarter-circle ruts. - that stand aside and let brown, mobile dust-clouds pass. Where sheep lead drovers, dogs, and creaking jinkers through. - that wait for mail and day-late papers. Wait where jeeps turn in and rattle cattle ramps. A few have rusted shut. One held up elbows then, but neither scrapes nor swings now and the ruts have healed - although the barbs are sharp and with me still when nights are quiet - a gate that slammed in anger once and words wired closed - that rattle latches that only I can hear, that fence in old, unhealing things. In there chains are straining and I hope the padlocks hold.