The Barn
by Vi Jones

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 and souvenirs, 

No mention in a guide book. 
No tourists flocked to view her. 
She was but a barn,

Her history, hardly grandiose, 
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, 
A sign 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 on dry and crackling grass
.
I entered through the double doors, 
One hung precariously, 
The other down and molding into dust.

I stood in silent homage 
To what soon would be no more.
Inside, weeds grew through the floor. 

Old straw crumpled into dust 
In stalls where once horses rested.
Swallow nests in darkened corners,

Their chirping, music in the rafters. 
Blue sky shining through the gaps,
Dust filled God beams 

Like searching spotlights on mouse tracks below.
She was alive that day. 
Her old timbers creaked and groaned 

As I sat, my back against a crumbling stall, And whispered my good-byes.

I walked away with heavy heart.
She had been a friend so long, 

Seen 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 long ago by gnarled hands an
d sweat. 
I walk that way no longer, 

Now that my friend has gone. 

Vi Jones (Welshie) (c)1999