The Iron Latch

 
At first it seemed too plain a thing to write.
A memory that need not a pen record.
In passing by the gate into the night,
The iron latch my ear so long ignored.
In slamming she may choose to catch, or not.
No oil has wept for years upon her clasp.
The post to which she clings has gone to rot.
The gate she holds relentless in her grasp.
In time the post and gate will two be gone,
Eroded by the salty wind of time.
The iron latch alone will carry on,
Though by the bye another post to climb.
But I will never hear its solid sound.
By then I shall be buried ‘low the ground.