The Gate

THE GATE.

Here I stand, shaped by man's inventive hand.
My frame erect and rigid as the day
I was so proudly put into my place.
The twists and turns of my skeleton
A monument to my designer's art.
Forged from the gravel ripped out of the ground
At monumental cost of human toil.
Transported over vast distance; heated
To liquid gold in vast foundry furnace
And cooled by the sweat of a thousand men.
Forged by mighty hammers into iron,
Then lovingly shaped into the wrought gate
That I appear to be; above my head
That sign so carefully scripted that tells
The passing male population that here
They may respectfully relieve themselves.
Gentlemen, that sign invites you in
To a place where you may stand in privacy;
Acknowledging your neighbor silently.
And do what all men do erect and proud.
No women to impose upon your space
They have their own collective, private place.
But look again you'll see no edifice;
Behind me no shining tiles nor porcelain bowls.
No gleaming urinals against the wall
So proudly at attention wait for you.
Peer through my rigid ribs and you will see
An empty space, a park where children play
The sign above my head now meaningless,
A remnant of a long forgotten age
When local councils cared about the men
Who passed in pilgrimage to work and home again.
No longer a door am I, an entrance
To a place of quiet relief, an exit
From the street; I fill a gap in a wall, bound by chains
Secured with a padlock the key for which 2
Has long been lost; an object of pity
For any passer by who chanced to look or
Glance at me and sees a wretched rusted thing.
But I am not the thing I seem to be,
I'm the first hammer that drove the first nail;
Ships that navigate the trade routes of the world
Are part of me; the silver birds that link
The continents at a single bound are of my fibre made.
Bridges straddle streams and mighty rivers
With beauteous grace. Canyons in defiance
Of nature joined by my great rigid arms.
When enemies are at their evil ways
And threaten to disrupt our way of life
My fibre fills the veins of men and drives
Them on to acts of bravery undreamed.
But what's to be my fate? what will become
Of me? One day my picket at this gap
Will terminate and I'll be taken down
To face my end. Will I become some washing
Up machine or a thousand razor blades?
Perchance some giggling yuppie will save me
For some suburban garden; paint me with
Black hammerite and illuminate me.
Until in passing time I flake away
In to the dust from whence I came but that
Will not be the end of me, for the ground
Will yield me up once more to take my place
In future history. Look, turn your face
To outer space and you will see me there.
When men do walk amongst the stars I'll be
Waiting there for you; for I am iron.
I'm the foundation of the universe,
I'm the heart of the engine of the world
That drove the history of the past
Into today that will tomorrow be.
What man becomes he will be made of me.