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.
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