She Was But a Barn
She stood forlorn in a worn out field,
an aging, wrinkled crone.
Though unsung,
she rivaled the classic architecture of old Europe.
There were no signs or souvenirs,
no mention in a guide book.
No tourists flocked to view her—
she was but a barn.
Her history was hardly grandiose.
She was but a simple monument to the brave
but ordinary folk
who settled hereabouts.
Each winter, snow lay heavy on her roof,
each spring she sagged a little more.
How many seasons could she have stood to tell
that some humble pioneer homesteaded here?
One morning when I walked that way,
I saw the sign, new and brightly coloured,
it proclaimed development—
Eighty homes, a strip mall, and a filling station
would replace my piece of history.
With swimming eyes, I climbed the fence
and walked through the dry and crackling grass.
I entered through the double doors,
one hung precariously, the other one was down
and molding into dust.
Once inside I stood in silent homage
to what soon would be no more.
Weeds grew through the floor,
surviving despite the gloom.
Old straw had crumpled into dust
in stalls where once horses rested.
Swallows in darkened corners
would nest here no more,
nor would they make music in the rafters.
Blue sky shone through gaps while
Dust filled God beams
searched mouse tracks below.
She was alive that day, my barn, old friend.
Her timbers creaked and groaned
as I sat, my back against a crumbling stall,
and whispered my good bye.
I left that day with heavy heart.
She had been a friend so long,
watching me, each day as I walked by
in rain or shine, snow or freezing cold.
I took one last long look, then turned my back.
There was nothing I could do to help her.
She had no historic value,
Only architectural charm.
She was but a simple barn
Built by gnarled hands and sweat.
I walk that way no longer
Now that my friend has gone.
Vi Jones
©November 23, 2006
