Hung between stone monoliths
framing a postcard view
it marked the limits of our territory.

At six I swung, forbidden
wedging my toe caps in the sheep wire
nailed to the wood, watching
my father and his circling dogs
driving them in across
the nape of the fell
ready to hitch and drag it open
at his whistle.

Taller, I climbed it
racing for the ridge
through fox-coloured tussock grass
and nesting curlews
avoiding the green mires
deep enough to drag a horse down;
warned against abandoned mines,
houses with eyeless lintels
and the ghost of Sworley
wife-murderer,
who hanged himself in the barn.

Now, with the farm empty
the gate dislocated from its hinges
and the fields tussocking over
with rush and gorse, I pass
through its open cromlech
into a tourist's landscape.
Still able to feel
the hitch and drag of it
in my hands,
strong enough to pull
a whole life down.
 

© Kathleen Jones