Railings (Poetry)

Paint almost peeled, they’ve lost their topcoat black
now years of weather’s had its wilful way —
they lean like vagrants shabby in tweed suits,
the rust-flecked iron sports orange-brown and grey.

The playground they once guarded is no more —
class dismissed, the weedy tarmac’s face
yawning, free of footballs, nets and posts,
lets litter tumble wild about the place.

The gate has rusted through, its hinges hang —
twin amber butterflies pinned to the wall,
thin as tissue, brittle-patterned wings
fated, scale by scale, to flake and fall.

Leaves gather round the railings, clog the gaps,
drift in where broken ranks admit defeat,
while colours bleed their gradual decay
and iron gives up its purpose, obsolete.