Just a barn at sunset.
A barn that once had a purpose. Four stalls for horse or mule. Small tack room for saddles, bridles and leads. Loft up above for square bales.
A poet or an artist might describe it as “weathered” or “rustic.”
I am neither. I like solid words. Words with a certain heft that you can hold in your hand or put in your pocket and bring out twenty years from now, meaning intact.
I call it “old.”
The tin roof has stood the test of time. Poplar sideboards still sound. But the loft door sags, as does the gate. Time passes. “Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold.”
Someone with skills I cannot fathom built this barn for its purpose. Probably out of the ether with no written plan. Visualized and then constructed with hand tools. Style and method learned from father, who learned it from his father. Hammer, handsaw, sweat and muscle.
I would like to think he paused after the last nail had been driven. Admired his work like the Master in His holy book. But likely as not he had a dipper of water from the well across the road. Wiped his brow, spit, then headed on down the road to the next little patch of land where a barn was a needful thing. Rest reserved only on the appointed day.
This day draws to its own close. Perhaps these lines only the scribbled imaginings of a lonesome pilgrim who walked the land at the close of day. But one thing holds true. They don’t make them like they used to.
Barns or men.