The Old Barn
I am broken down but I still stand.
The path to my trough is all but grown
Over. My trust is broken...my loft exposed.
The Sun burns the hay I harbor. And
Bands of dust span the air like tethers
To the sky. My front, no longer red, is
Tinged with grey. A loosened hinge creeks
When the wind forces my door open. The
Wasp... the bee... their buzz is distant now.
Only mice scurry beneath my shadow. My
Crib is barren with only wasted corn. And
Shucked husk to cover the floor. No more
Children scampering about; no more livestock
Sheltered from the rain. The serpent crawls my
Space once more. An old Barn dying, but still standing--
Still.
The Plough
You are a rusting plough in the field.
The sage grass grows up around you,
And all you do is catch the rain.
You were new once, painted over with red.
Your tines glistened silver as they furrowed the ground.
Clod and grass alike fell beneath your mettle.
You were a friend, someone to count on.
Leaned against, for your line was always true.
But Time, that great enemy of all saw you.
And now you rest here in this field...
Hobbled by earth bound tines where
Rabbits and quail gather in your shadow.
Steven Brown can be reached at bodock@hotmail.com
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