The Old Gate

Many a place that time leaves behind Hold memories that never rust Like the now broken swing where skyward you'd climb It now creaks as it sways in a windy gust The old wooden house where you once lived Held memories of laughter and fun With beauty from nature derived Playing where the rivers run The rustling leaves of the old oak tree is remembered by those who explored its branches Now it plays a sentimental melody As recollections flow without stanches Impressions may come and go But in some forgotten corridor of the mind An image will suddenly show "By the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find"