The Lines of Old Barns
By William Bagley
Email: wfbagley at post dot harvard dot edu
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June 05, 2008
The lines of old barns rise out
Of straight planks of pine
Weathered gray, frayed at the bottom
In places not green with moss,
With roofs cut to neat peaks
Supported by thick beams
Cut, sawed and lifted into place
In days when they covered a
Cathedral of ordinary hope.
Now we look out of the tack room
Window, out the windows in back
Near the places where hay's sweet
Smell lingers
And spot sunlight through holes
In the pine that lets light in by day
And cold by night.
And the lines of the barn never shift
Never intersect
And we talk between the lines
Until a hard gust slams shut the door
And, light failing,
We retreat to the house,
The barn lines straight, still in the night.
About the author:
I am a lawyer, working in support of the environment. This poem derives from my childhood home, and its old saltbox barn. Few things defined my early life so much as experiences in and around that barn... it was like a sixth member of our family. I hope that you like the poem... regards, Bill Bagley
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