the gate, ajar

out at the point where the big house settles –
surveys the perfect estuary
and the white gums glistening in the sun –

out at that point
the man falters,
tumbles from the headland

falls through heavy brush
landing bruised, alive

by a derelict engine
bearing cast letters –

spelling a phrase of wisdom, incomprehensible –

and sees below
the gate swung ajar

the deeply trodden
dusty path

by which he walks

to a place of cave dwellers
down by the estuary

who craft their earthen masks
and display them

in well-lit caves

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