by john clare
Yesterday we came upon the back gate to a now gone Homewood
where, at the end of Dogwood and Ochlockonee it has long stood,
chained and lichen stained yet holding the remnants of memories good.
As we peered beyond the weathered boards I'm certain we heard
the ringing of the dinner bell loud calling us to return from hunting
grey squirrels we missed, barking and fussing over our heads.
You could still barely discern the trail where father and son once stood,
the boy helping hang the handmade gate at the back of old Homewood.
We know all too sadly we can never return to what has past,
The old gate bars us and holds us to this present side passing fast,
But to some the keeper of gates has entrusted his keys and
allows but for a moment, to stand upon the other side and rest
against the gate on the warm side down memory.
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