A Delight in My Email Box

Sometimes small delights come in over the transom, such as this wonderful little poem from David Cunningham, a reader from Vermont who, like me, bemoans the slow but steady loss of old barns and farm outbuildings.

Enjoy!

LEFT TO ROT

I look with sadness at this old barn,

Once proud upon its stone.

Now left to rot; bereft of cows,

So canted and alone.


Was it once red? Was it once square?

Was it once some farmer’s pride?

Did it once swell a young man’s heart?

This barn and his new bride.


A man once milked his cows in there,

Once stored his hay, his life.

This barn once meant much to that man,

This barn and his dear wife.


But time moves on, that man grew old,

His wife and life have gone.

His sons could not stay on the farm,

So they, too, have moved on.


So now the barn is left to rot,

The weather breaks its spine.

And I claim it would not be so,

If this barn, it were mine.


But soon I, too, will pass the way,

Of all things made of flesh.

The world moves on, but without me,

Replaced by something fresh.


Then who will tend my treasured barn,

Once I’m no longer here?

No one will care like I once cared,

No one will hold it dear.


No, in the ground we both shall go,

I sooner, like as not.

And in the end we’ll both be mold,

Both will be left to rot.