At the Gate

An old bog nudge and a dropped clover at gate

Nose to the leather, he waits and he waits

The wind moves the branches, the evening turns slow

Like you know someone's leaving, though he doesn't let go

At the gate, at the gate

He stands where the footprints fade

With a quiet kind of faith

An old-time legend, a dropped glove at the gate

The porch light is fading, the yard is asleep

But he keeps watching the gold of the creeping deep

One glove in the grass and a heart full of rain

He lowers his head, then he lifts it again

At the gate, at the gate

He stands where the footprints fade

With a quiet kind of faith

An old dog nudging a dropped glove at the gate