At the bottom of the valley
Where the road begins to climb
Leave the engine turning
By the farm’s dividing line
Drawn across the gravel
To keep the creatures safe
The opening, the holding
And the closing of the gate

The latch, a crooked finger
On a chain, its next-of-kin
They are old and worn and heavy
They are smooth against the skin
An eye fixed to the gatepost
Just one hill away from home
Chamomile and bluebell
In cahoots between the stones

A pause in conversation
A simple, solemn wait
For the opening, the holding …
And the closing of the gate

My fragile hope, I dare to trust 
That it will know which way to go, 
I swear to God, this is the closest thing to
Praying that I know
On the knife-edge of the hilltop 
Cattle graze across the sky
The gate creeps back across the yard
Hinges breathe a sigh

A pause in conversation
A simple, solemn wait
For the opening, the holding
And the closing of the gate

A pause in contemplation
A simple, solemn faith
In the opening, the holding …
And the closing of the gate