The other day I walked the path up from Lynmouth to Lynton in North Devon, and along the way there were various handwritten poems, posted beside the path. It gave me a good excuse to stop and catch my breath! I also passed gates of various shades and sizes, and so I wrote this.
Some doors are gleaming, bright and shiny,
some are ancient, a little bit grimy,
some are bolted sturdy and strong,
some doors haven’t been there that long.
Some doors have been shut for a while,
some doors have a particular style.
Some are warmer, some are cold,
some of them younger, some of them old,
some are strong, some are weak,
some are silent, some of them creak.
Some are rotting, some brand new,
some need a lick of paint or two.
Some are tough, prepared for a fight,
some can barely stay upright.
Some say ‘private – no entrance thanks’,
some swing wide with barely a glance.
Whatever the door he waits outside,
waits for us to ask him inside,
waits to enter and share a meal,
with friendship, hope and something real.
Revelation 3 v 20