I went out for the last time
from the white gate with peeling paint
with no more reason to stay –
each having been laid aside quietly, slowly –
I went out the white gate.

And pushing my pack across back streets –
ways learned over many journeys –
each to be laid aside quietly, slowly,
and forgotten in a space of weeks
I push my pack across the streets.

And as I come to a half-known road,
I am joined again by my younger selves
on lonely paths away from gates –
and in solidarity, though each in shock,
we march together, breathless.

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