Move Along

The fence's cracked and greying teeth
still smile at passers-by from this
most sociable of gardens.
I stand for a while and smile back.

The fence was raw, upended.
You and I, conspiring,
(father, daughter) bridal-dressed it,
messed ourselves and minded nothing.

The fence ran round the hours we spent
as wife and husband, side by side
beside the busy road, bent double
then, benighted, benched together.

You ran along the fence,
my five year-old explorer,
safe inside but sensing danger,
looking out and moving, moving.

We moved. The fence remains.
A tooth is loose, the bridal dress
is wearing thin, the nails stained
(they strain to hold the whole together).

The fence, the garden, bench
and flowerbeds - our past,
are passed to someone else,
and I must move along.