Gates

St Peter put his yo yo down and rubbed his saintly eyes
As through a cloud, a figure bowed, pursued by swarms of flies
Came tramping up to heavens gate, and stood there in amaze
Then dropped his swag and tucker bag and said well spare me days

I’ve humped this here Matilda, from the age of seventeen
There ain’t a track, in all outback, that us two haven’t seen
But when I rolled me final swag, I thought I’d cleaned the slate
Now stone the crows, before me nose, I see another gate

In fifty years of hoofing it, and covering all the while,
Twelve miles a day at least I’d say, at two gates to the mile
I ain’t much good at figures, but the way I calculates,
In my career, I’ve opened near on fifty thousand gates

These gates they simply haunt me, there were gates of every sort
Rusted gates and busted gates, high, low, long and short gates that seemed to cringe,
Lazy gates, crazy gates that hang on half a hinge

Gates timbered up with fencing wire and gates all pretty scrolls,
With patent catch and home made-latch and gates made out of poles
Wide gates and narrow gates, big carriers and small,
Sagging gates, dragging gates, I’ve wrestled with them all

I’ve opened them and shut ‘em, till the sight of all I hate
I’d rather miss your heavenly bliss, than open that there gate
What’s that? You’ll open ‘er for me. Now that’s what I call nice,
And close her too when I get through. Well this is
“Paradise”

Found under a straw palliasse in Cordillo Downs
shearing shed in 1938 – Godfrey Bedford

The poem is on display in the Birdsville Working Museum, Birdsville, Queensland.
It was spotted and photographed by Brian Lehner on 26 May 2009