It will never tell its secrets
Old boards, an audible moan
Holding up the sagging roof
A crumbling foundation of stone

The years have done their damage
The summers of scorching sun
All the wet and icy winters
A battle with nothing won

An old harness in the corner
Wearing its coat of dust
A plow no longer plowing
Growing a harvest of rust

If we would only listen
Oh, the stories it would tell
Of barefoot kids in the barnyard
Mama ringing the dinner bell

Tonight will be the last night
That it shadows in the sun
Tomorrow it’s gone forever
The old barns race is done

We are the unsung poets
who toil in day for the harvests
then write at night as the wick burns
in the dark slips of our meek turns

We are the unseen poets
who invisibly raise armours
swing pens as the dark evades the light
a strip to the core of the soul,our right

We are the trampled heroes
whose halos are out-shined by thunder
and tongues tied to a word twisted silence
Our heavenly seduction of a naked dance

I am the unsung poet
inspired by love and rhythm of life
transpired by the ounce of human experience
My eternal contract that only makes sense

Saw  a  obituary  in  the  newspaper
of  a  long  lost  friend.

I,t  hit  me  off  the  page.
Like  an  arrow  through  my  heart.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.