The Gate


The iron is worked hard the temperature high a s smoke rises up into the dark cloudy sky. The hammer smashes against the iron again and again. It bends into a shape, the hands of the skilled old worker lost in time when the machine took over. Dipped in water then hung with its friend. They ask each other will we be in the same park attached for life till man decides to melt us again for another design.

Maybe we will be separated ending up at the other end of the country in a wood or cemetery, a path along a river or a path to a big house with Royalty. Will I feel lots of people holding me as they push me swing on me. Will the Sun warm me or will I hang in darkness just to be touched on the odd occasion.

A life watching the human race change, I will here stories in time as the couple kiss over the top of me and say goodbye my love see you next week. The postman will lean on me to check his postal code, the paper boy hanging his bag on a Sunday that weighs him down. The little dog will warm me in winter with a warm wee.

The Squirrel will sit and eat his monkey nut on me as he runs off from the feeder scared by the man. Gloves of all makes of material will hold me in the same place making me smooth just in one place. I will be left open only to hear the words shut the gate over and over again.

Snow frost and rain will wash me sit on me, freeze on me hiding me for a while till it melts and I see again. Children will jump over me some will make it others will catch me and hurt themselves. Blame me for being to high, kicking me for closing to fast behind them.

I am smothered all over my joints to keep me moving smoothly, I cringe when the wire brush scratches me ready for me to have as another colour, red, black, green, oxide any will do but make me look nice, no runs please

I see men women and boys in uniform walking away waving goodbye see you soon mum. The gate will only open again to the postman delivering the Telegram. I will hear screams as his only Son is taken from her. People will get hurt in front of me people just minding there own business. I will know who did it, I could solve the case.

Cars will back into me, crash and burn, the runs past touching me holding vital evidence to a crime. The milkman will whistle to me at 5 am as he brings the bottled orange with the gold top, a thing of the past.

The doctor holds me as he brings his medical bag for another home birth, smiling as he leaves and shouts to the neighbors it’s a Girl. People push me as they rush into the football game brushing against my body thousand by thousands breathing smoke and alcohol all over me.

But I have company my gate just hangs next to me the neatly cut green hedge joining us he to sees what I see feels what I feel, knows the story of time. The changes that have happened over time.

The are the gate I swung on as a boy in Cheadle, the ones at Main Road that my Blue and White scarf got caught in when we won. The gate I watched my dad leave my mum leave and eventually me. The gate to my park to take my wonderful bird flight images. I still brush against you but your a different shape as I push you at the Etihad you still see Blue and White scarfs.

You stop the children from danger just like you did for me, but the Telegram won’t arrive no more, nor the milkman bring the orange with the gold top. The whistle will come from the man as he walks his new puppy, you will still get wee on you and frost and snow.

You didn’t get melted down and you still stand watching the world go by.

The Gate.

Categories:GateTags: ,

3 comments

  1. Brilliant story x

    Like

  2. Absolutely fabulous Ron x

    Like

  3. Fabulous

    Like

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