Grey Old Barn
By Richard M. Grove
Grand old lady,
silver-grey stoically standing,
in vivid field of rolling green,
gently drifting,
from the ethereal,
graspable past.
Standing firm,
in dream and memory,
on her thick,
stone laboured foundation,
my unswayable remembrance,
a beacon to the past.
Brimmed with cool, damp and dark,
ground level,
spider webbed,
perfumed with the aroma of time.
Creaky, broad and tall,
stairs led up,
to the bounty of life,
bound in bails of golden straw,
stacked beside bins upon bins,
of yellow corn.
From the past,
she gently nudges,
the fond memories,
of a gay child hood,
rapped in shoulder high grass,
always with her majesty,
firmly perched in sight,
night after night,
year after year.
