The Gate

Rod MacKenzie

The glisten of sun on wired bars and a latch
Jittering in the wind between two poles
Nearly thirty years ago amazes me today.

I turn around and see again Dad’s old Peugeot,
Waiting, headlights blazing in the dark, the mist
A porridge swirling in the glare. The engine
Ticks and tisks in the stillness, like he does
As he gripes to Mom, “He can’t open
The bloody gate!” My fingers are sore and slip
On the wired latch like feet scrabbling over
Endless ice in a dream. Suddenly Dad’s hands
Slap away mine, then wrench the wire
In mysterious ways and the gate shrieks open.
“He’s just a boy, he wanted to help,” Mom pleads
As the car grinds through the gateway, tyres boiling up
Dust and pebbles as the car charges home.
I nurse the bruises on my hands and close the gate

As today, in another country, I open it
Onto fields and pines minting the valleys
Once hinted at in a dusty moonlight.

LitNet: 30 May 2006

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