A barn abandoned, left to drift alone,
wind torn and breached upon the reef of time,
in fields, now dust, where summer wheat was sewn:
the wagons heaped with grain stood long in line
to fill the grange of this once mighty ship;
now but a shadow, listing, ghostly gray.
Raw winds and pelts of rain how cruelly whip
the wounded roof and soak the rotted hay
-the roof, an April green in days before,
a farmer's name upon it stitched in white.
This ark of kittens, bawling calves, no more.
A rat gnaws on a crib, the final rite.
Yet on this easel, raised by bardic hand,
forgotten barns, forgotten not, still stand.
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