The Iron Latch

At first it seemed too plain a thing to write;

a memory that a pen need not record,

heard passing by the gate into the night,

the iron latch my ear so long ignored.

In slamming she may choose to catch, or not,

the gate she once held tightly in her grasp.

The post to which she clings has gone to rot.

No oil has wept for years upon her clasp.

In time the post and gate will both be gone,

eroded by the salty wind of time.

The iron latch alone will carry on.

For she will find another post to climb.

But I shall never hear that solid sound.

By then I shall be laid below the ground.

RLJ - 2009


Note: This poem has little to do with gates or latches. It's a loose metaphor about women who outlive their men.