The squeal of the steel gate splits my ears and concentration,
breaking my brief enjoyment of a half-petalled hydrangea's head.
How did I become this - all metal gates and distraction -
when once I was unfenced wilderness, big sky?
Was I ever that? Or did I fear it?
Is this London garden gate the dead end of my defences,
the prison to which I fled?
The sky turns, and so do I, tiny on the planet's edge.
Vast midnight waits - but here and there, a star.
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