The Old Antique Barn (poem)



Down trodden wood laid bare by sun, parched like the skin of the farmer.

Aged and ageless, like all novelties of old; a snapshot of days long gone.

Here stands majestic the old antique barn, stirring memories for this whole town.

1850’s they say, post and beam hand-hune, carefully shaped by the hands with care.

Each slice of the knife to sculpt her is still etched in the contour of her wood.

Through wars and rennaissance, struggles and strife she’s stood un-remitting and undeterred.

Always blessing the valley with her presence, her name all know as ‘the antique barn’.

With tales of old, of art, antiques and farm stuff, she’s left an indelible mark on childhoods.

She still stands proud and true, as she grieves the loss of her comrads.

Fallen are her friends, the farms north and south, replaced by urban mindsets and indifference.

The sweat of the brow of the farmer long gone, too grieves at the travesty of loss.

Loss of character, loss of knowledge, loss of care.  all replaced by …. nothing.

Bloomingdale Valley – the valley of blooms — now too, down trodden wood laid bare … by time.

~ Lori Davis, The Poet Farmer



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