The Old Barn

Soon winter comes and deepening roots in blackened soil of centuries past
Go cold, though growing still and white-snow laden;
And barns of garnished grey and boards with virgin knots no more,
They plank-faced hang, their sagging doors with crimson lost.

Knowing shadows capture freeze-frame moments passing there,
Those fleeing memories, stories of a fleeting day;
Such sturdy byres will soon be gone and, well --
Will children know, remember them, or care?