The garden gate

The garden gate,

after the long rain,

refused.

That old iron latch,

thick with rust,

set its jaw.

I pushed, I pulled,

my fingers aching,

the metal groaning, a low,

damp sound.

It’s just a gate,

it's meant to open,

to let things through.

But this one,

this one held.

The worn-off paint around it,

a ghost of attempts,

all just as futile.

It just wouldn't give.

Just wouldn't give.