Poetry – The Gate

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


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.

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  1. Pingback: Ones – Wordland

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