GATE

The gate it swings
Within the wind
Creaking hinges
Banging screams
Not in control
Of its movement
Dragged and battered
No improvement.

Its wooden soul
Victim of nature
Its earlier use
Now deemed a failure
Time ravaged
Old and now 
Not wanted
Timber taunted.

Peeling paint
And deep cracks under
A melting face
Of long past Summer
Knotted eyes
Now look down
Beaten surrendered
A dying clown.