There is no better sound than the creek of an old screen door,

But when the door finally shuts, I find myself craving the sound more.

It makes me miss riding bikes with the boys back in past days

When I'd enjoy the simple things, like exploring cricks and feeling warm sun rays.

High Slate we called it, the title's origin unknown,

There's a beautiful view through a clearing in the woods we used to roam.

We would bike to pass time and climb to explore

Places where childhood was ripe until our virginities were no more.

The nostalgia of innocence weighs on my mind,

When I hear a screen door and remember a simpler time.