Latch

The Latch

Upon the garden gate, a humble latch,
A quiet keeper of the yard’s repose,
It clicks with British grace, a modest catch
That guards the blossoms where the sweet peas grows.

No grand affair of bolts or shining steel,
Just iron bent to hold the wooden frame,
Yet in its simple click I find appeal—
A promise that the world will stay the same.

When rain drums soft upon the slate‑grey roof,
And children chase their laughter down the lane,
The latch stands watch, a steadfast, quiet proof
That safety lives in modest, humble pain.

So here’s to latches small, the unsung lot,
That keep our homes and hearts securely caught.