The Gate Poem by Jack Worthington
The Gate
One late afternoon I walked by a church
The saints long buried and returned to the earth
Their peace, now broken, posterity's token, has given birth
A baloon entangled itself in a birch.
I could not bear to look away
Yet the past could not bare false witness
As I watched that iron gate sway, guarding nothing but time delayed
The fast no longer held, the progeny exuding weakness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/23/2024 5:02:44 AM # 1.0.0.1119
