There was a gate,
that stood without walls,
alone and patient,
in the middle of the forest.
It was not beautiful,
with twisting filigree,
and tingling gold,
and cold, stone heads.
It had been green,
but now it’s skin peeled,
and rust in bloody patches,
patterned each line
and rod.
If people ventured into the waving wood,
they would always find the gate
and wonder about it.
No path led to it
nor from it.
Trees in dark soldier rows,
looked down
on the curious travellers.
They would laugh,
hop and skip,
and round and round and
round it go,
three times for luck,
then leave.
Some souls would stop
and think,
or not at all,
and open the gate,
the green, faded gate
and
they would see.
The ones who stayed could not describe it,
and the ones who could had already left
and closed behind them
the waiting, rusting gate.
Wordland 