Here is one of the (few) new poems that has emerged from this once fertile, but now seemingly barren, imagination of mine. I will tell you up-front that it is all fiction as I have not a particular attachment, to any particular barn, in any particular way. Though I will say that living here in New England I have been privileged to witnessing structures that are still standing, and many still functioning, from the earliest of times in our nation’s history. But it’s true that there are some, like the “Old Barn” in this poem that have now fallen to disrepair and are now but memories of an earlier and hopefully happier time.
I hope you will read it with some nostalgic pleasure,
That Old Barn
That old, once berry-red barn,
has been scourged over time
by the whips of the wind and the rain.
Once standing as the symbol
of a flourishing farm,
reduced now, to a skeletal frame.
The rafters, the walls and the floors
like the bones of the farmer himself,
are now sagging from too many days.
Under the burden of the weight,
like its lofts had before,
from the bales of the harvested hays.
And now gone is the equine, the bovine and hog,
and the hay, turned to straw,
Gone too are the dreams,
as gone, as the dog.
But still, the old memories stay.
You see, it’s more to me than a barn,
or a structure crumbling
out of lack of repair.
It is a reminder of a time long ago
of summers, golden and warm,
and where I now visit my youth, in there.
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