The Crooked Gate by Elizabeth Henry

There is a gate beside the church

That’s crooked, tired and spent.

Its latch is rusty, squeaky, stiff,

Its hinges bowed and bent.

 

It quivers, wobble, quakes and reels

On wild and windy days.

It clatters, bangs and taps a tune;

It rocks and jolts and sways.

 

It’s clobbered, thumped and slammed and banged

By postmen in a dash.

Its paint is blistered, peeled and chipped;

It’s scaled by cunning cats.

 

It’s utilised for landing

By the robins, chats and wrens.

It’s thought of as a meeting place

For sweethearts, swains and friends.

 

On wintry days, it’s capped with snow;

It shrinks in summer sun.

It’s dressed with bunting, jacks and flags

In celebratory fun.

 

And when, one day it rots away,

The villagers will smile.

They’ll reconstruct it with their tools,

And then they’ll build a stile.