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.
And 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?
(It's the early 1940's: - My grandfather (or it may be my father) is in the car, in from of the barn and milk house. The farm was on the Queen Elizabeth Way, formerly called the 'Middle Road' in Burlington, Ontario, on the north side and just east of the Guelph Line interchange. I wrote this poem sometime in 2012, around 70 years later.)