Water took the rafters
drop by drop, the wind
pressed from the west
slanted the poplar beams
inch by weathered inch.
Swallows dipped and flew
in and out of broken
windows, foxes burrowed along
the breezeway, pounced
the shadow ghosts
of Percy’s hogs, stirred
up dung dust, mouldering
grains, slanted loft light.
Braced to last, chisel
and broadaxe-built, post
by long summer beam
the day they ripped away her
faded white- dressed wood
she stood strong in skeletal
glory, backlit by a sunset
to rival any Victor Fleming
Technicolor masterpiece.
Defying field and sky, defying
men and their newfangled
machines she stood her proud
ground til, under the stress of
crane and crowbar,
she stood no more.
Night falls on the empty
space that once held
her soft rustlings,
the breathing of boys
in the bays. Night falls
on the song of the old
wagon driver, the lowing
cow, the settling quiet.
Come morning, we’ll
find a rusted hinge on
the scraped earth, walk
what’s left of the perimeter
scar, pour tea in corners
and pray forgiveness for
our abandonment, help
for letting go.
Early Morning Poems 