For Sale

Speared through soil like
javelins, they fly the
flag of their vessel's
hopes and fears,

scaring old dears
with threats of
leaving brethren.
In February winds they

tremor with the leafless trees,
only shorter and crisper,
as if shy of the candour of
their desperate plea.

De-staking happens in an instant.
Only a solitary nail survives the replacement
of old tenants with new – left
aloft the gate latch where

pinned post had held against
the fence. Months on I see
that nail still held square.
I question whether the new

owners care or even know it's there.
Or whether it's me: over thinker, morbid
noticer, who really sees it, choking its thick
blood rust against

the black brick, bolder and deeper
with the seasonless months.