A poem by Sheila Bell, inspired by the image...

The Gate

It may come to some at a young age
Or may dawn gently through the years
For some it may not come at all
Amidst life's angst and fears

It is a gift, to all, freely given
To receive it, we don't have to wait
Only to change our perspective
Please know that it's never too late

As I approach the next stage of my life
It's, as if, with a new set of eyes
The mundane transforms to magnificent
All earth's beauty before me now lies

At the gate we can make our choices
To turn back or continue ahead
Or perhaps to pause, to contemplate
On the gate itself instead

Take time to see and touch it
To imagine the craftman's hand
Appreciate how sympathetically
It humbly nestles in the land

For its only when we pause awhile
We can feel the creator's touch
And the eyes, once weary, can see afresh
The earth's glory, our souls need so much

Sheila Bell

The image also inspired the artist Stuart Bromley to create this painting:

A poem by Gina Hobbs, illustrated by Watching the farm cat.

 Watching the farm cat

Cats, cats, beautiful cats,

Some wear socks

And some wear hats,

Some chase mice

And some catch rats,

Cats, cats, beautiful cats...

Gina Hobbs

A poem by Pete Faulkner, illustrated by Scooters at dawn.

Off Season

The funfair is boarded up.
That's all Folks pricked out
in red and gold bubble lettering 
on huge bumpy metal screens
round the Crazy Canyon Roller Ride.

Mario's Ice Cream Paradise 
sells seven
of fiftytwo advertised flavours.

Spittle of seaspray
flicks the greystone fronts 
of small hotels named after 
novels by Scott
or obscure battles
in Victoria's South African War.

A metal footbridge gnawed by rust 
crosses the weed-scattered railway line.

Tammy and Julie, chamber maids
at the St Ronan's Well Family Hotel, 

walk past the closed-down Wax Museum 
and past the pebble-dash shelter
where old ladies in plastic rainhats 
hug ratty dogs in tartan coats, 
towards rock pools, metal railings
and seaweed ribboned to tom black lace.

Traces of scummy foam 
lick their feet.
Tammy skips "Singing in the Rain"
over salty glitter 
spat onto concrete
then sucked back into 

the dark winter sea.
Julie swings
on the rusty novelty telescope.
They both decide
to stretch their lunch hour.

Pete Faulkner

In America they killed all the buffalo just to take away food from the natives,
made mountains of their skulls and posed proudly in photos
like they posed proudly in front of burnt bodies after lynchings in the south.

In Australia they stole the brown children and gave them to pale families
and watched their ancient civilization disappear into the toxic fumes of industry
like a sailboat into the mist.

In Israel teenagers play with buttons that cause explosions on screens
and look forward to the end of the Gaza operation
so they can leave and go play better video games.

In Gaza mothers clutch tattered pieces of flesh and clothing to their chests
and scream names that will never again be answered
and call out questions to the heavens that will also go unanswered.

And the ghosts of the buffalo roam through the ruins
looking for their heads
while the people of Gaza comb through the rubble
looking for their dead,
and the rest of us stare at screens and cry like babies
and ask our own unanswered questions
of heavens clouded by the fumes of industry,
vanishing stars above a dying world
as the lights go out in Gaza
one by one.

Caitlin Johnstone

See also:

• Free Palestine demonstration 2023