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Poetry - The Old Gate House
The Old Gate House
by Paddy Byrne
Don’t knock upon my door stranger
For there’s no one at home.
In the silence that surrounds me,
Your knock sounds harsh in tone.
Your footsteps ring an echo,
In the chambers of my mind,
But I’m old and lonely now, stranger,
And your name erased by Time.
You my look in through my windows, stranger,
At my walls so dull and bare.
You can see the dusty floor, stranger,
And the climbing, winding stairs,
Each step retains a sounding of people gone away.
One step to sigh, a step to cry,
And on one a knee to pray.
The bouncing heels of the playful child,
In swift ascending flight.
Or the heavy tread of the weary heart, stranger,
To meet the lonely night.
That painted newel- post ball, stranger,
Is smooth beneath the dust,
Where many a palm has rested,
In Faith, In Love and trust.
So be upon your way, stranger,
But look back before you go.
At my windows dark and dull, stranger,
Gone is their youthful glow.
That drop of water that you see
Rolling down the window pane;
Ach; Sure the skies are low and heavy, stranger.
Perhaps it’s just the rain.
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