Weather beaten and frayed
Rusty hinges cry against the wind;
Many years spent
staring down the sun
And keeping the rain’s tin hammers 
From having their way.
Light filters past motes
That hang like fireflies,
The quiet song of the loft
Brings a smile to weary eyes
And the dry smell of hay
Clings to clothes and memories.
Stubborn old walls resolute;
Watched folk and their beasts
Pull food from the land
And rest a night too short
Before the rhythm rises
And the floorboards shake
With the drumbeat of the world.
Nothing built lasts on Time’s wheel
But that old barn never asks
To be more than what it is;
Out there in the still dark air
Holding back the tide
‘Till morning comes.
whoisfenton 