Almanac Poetry: ‘The Gate’ – Tommy Mallet

 

 

 

The Gate

 

Sweeping rain covers the ute
as it winds,
descending off the plantation ridge,
another long, wet day
up and down
gully faces over.

 

We’re covered in wet fertilizer,
40kgs per load,
saddled over shoulders,
turned to sludge by winter skies.

 

Zink, sulphur, heavy metals,
in our pores, hair, lungs,
food,
leaving fingerprints all over
the steering wheel.

 

None of it mentioned,
we play tunes,
assuming, in hope, invincibility.

 

The main road, when reached,
is thin,
warped and buckled,
belonging nicely
to the bush.

 

   *****

 

We’re hauling a trailer.

 

The road’s shoulder too narrow,
I steer us to the far side,
parking to shut the gate.

 

Two trucks thunder by,
overloaded, relentless,
along the first thing close to
a straight for kilometres.

 

They rock the ute, our chests,
and are gone,
full of sweetly diminishing
power.

 

We’ve packed-up well, with few words.
A dozen back roads
through valleys, ridges,
along spurs,
will see me, in about two hours,
dried by the ute’s heater,
back with family,

 

12 hours after I left.

 

   ****

 

Bourbon can in hand, a moment of energy
springs me from the ute,
to shut the gate.

 

I strut across the
uneven road free.
A survivor of horrible things,
bragging with easy motion.

 

“Fuck yeah,” one of the others call,
as if I knew they
were watching.

 

 

 

 

More poetry from Tommy Mallet can be read Here.

 

 

More poetry from Almanac Poetry can be read HERE

 

 

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