My Grandfather’s Barn

My Grandfather’s Barn

My grandfather’s barn leans to the south.

The weathered old boards are gray.

The tin roof is rusted and dented and busted;

The wind blew the doors away.

But once that barn, filled with freshly-mown hay

Was a dark, sweet-smelling retreat.

The straw in the loft was wonderfully soft;

A hideaway, cool and complete.

A tinkle of cowbells, a jingle of harness,

The smell of horses and leather

Once filled the stalls and the hand-hewn walls

Were a refuge in wild, windy weather.

Now Grandfather’s gone and that empty old barn

Holds more than a fond memory.

It’s a heritage dear of a bright yesteryear

And all that those years meant to me.

                                                                                                              –by Blanche Day Manos