Groaning Gate

The wind picked up, a sudden gust today,

and then the gate, it started to sway.

A high-pitched scrape, a grating sound,

like a tired sigh from the ground.

That rusted hinge, it's always been there,

a constant protest in the air.

It barely holds the wood in line,

a constant threat, a slow decline.

I never fix it, just let it be,

this awful music, just for me.

Another year, another broken thing,

and still the rusty old gate will sing.