It stands half hidden in the brambles tall
Where honeysuckle and the wild rose grow,
A rusty iron wicket, old and red.
In autumn withered leaves upon it fall,
And winter shrouds its skeleton with snow,
And spring and summer’s suns on it are shed.
Its creaking hinges have been turned by all
The country folk that pass with footsteps slow,
And many more now numbered with the dead.
But some have lingered here in breathless thrall
To watch the silver planet silently
Rise over sleeping fields, while whispers sweet
Have stayed for thrilling moments homing feet,
And lips have met in ageless ecstasy.
Weekly Times 19.2.60