The Farm Gate

There's an old timber, farm gate at the end of a track. You wouldn't see it driving past unless you looked back. It's made of roughly hewn wood more than a lifetime ago, time and weather has worn it down, as the seasons ebb and flow. A rusty abandoned ute lays near, covered in pine tree nettles. Where weeds and braken make claim to it as in the earth it forever settles. Late sunlight filters through the trees, casting shadows through the gate. Where once cattle on the other side for feed would stand and wait. Young children used to play on the gate, stand and swing it open wide. Then climb through the cypress trees for another place to hide. Atop the rail the magpies perch, warbling away without refrain. Intently gazing across the fields, the kings of their domain. The children have all gone now, grown up and moved away. For many years the gate lay untouched, its frame in disarray. Who knows? maybe someone will see its worth and fix the old farm gate. Embed it back into time, for another's memories to recreate.