Hostile needling presence, pieces of fleece trailing in the breeze, caught on your claws, like piked heads to warn those straying from the flock. Borders with spikes to grab at intruders, a pointed rebuff. Your thorns are coarse and unyielding, steel roses will not grow between them, only a knotted, twisted metal yarn, thickening the guarded plot.
Is this door closed to us, then, even though both sides seem the same? Miles of dusty nothing separated by an unmanned, unmanning fence. Shall we seek the gate, the way, the five barred gate and return to the fold, or climb, undeterred, ragged-trousered daring, tumbling head-first, talons enmeshed in foolish flesh, sheep-like stupidity undaunted, till we lay bleeding and breathless, panting on the desert floor, looking back to where we came from and wondering at the greenness of the grass?
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com