Its weathered roof has seen the sunrise
Thousands and thousands of times
The green spackled shingles are worn out
Subdued by the sounds of wind chimes
Its red painted sides are now faded
Yet refreshed not just a few months ago
The relentless wind shows it no mercy
Nor the pitiless shards of iced snow
But cared for and nurtured like family
This building has anchored this farm
Housed needed equipment and fixtures Provides animals shelter from harm
A beacon to neigbours and comrades
Its crimson heart firm in the mud
The bustle of work like a rhythm
Its harvested bounty the blood
How long will it stand in the midlands
As the children it’s raised hit the road
None left to assure a fresh touch up
No soul round to hoist the last load
But I know the red barn will not perish
Long from now it will be standing
Someone will refresh its green shingles
There’ll be kinship and lively glad-handing
For humans are meant to be reaping
So the tradition of farming prevails
We’re drawn and connected to land
Though we’ll never stop blazing new trails…