The Barn

The beauty of a barn,
With high graceful eaves,
Can enhance any setting,
With enchantment it weaves.
Weather built of wood,
Or built of stone.
The barn is a monarch,
Even standing alone.
When it gets old
And no longer in use.
It stands there stately,
While suffering abuse.
To think of a future,
With no barns to be found.
The loss to manking,
Would clearly be profound.

by Ralph Wainscott

Other poems of RALPH WAINSCOTT (2)

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