Set far off in a corner,

Of what is called homestead,

Stands there in all itís glory,

Red barn where stock are fed.


A shelter for the creatures,

Who call the red barn home,

Far off in corner of the yard,

Majestic, but alone.


A place that calls out to the man,

With chores that must be done,

Before the dawning light of day,

 Again with setting sun.


The man sits there, beside his cow,

On stool that is homemade,

His head against old Bossieís flank,

Cats rubbing on his leg.


The milk he gets, from placid cow,

Swirls foaming in the pail,

His face sometimes feels brief sting from,

Old Bossieís restless tail.


Yet as he sits there in the quiet,

Irritation fades away,

For this is just his special time,

A finish to his day.


When chores are done, he gives a sigh

Bone tired and weary then,

Yet filled with peace of knowing that

Days work is done again.


Red barn will be there, tall and proud,

It knows no other way,

When sun comes up and he returns,

To start another day.


© 2003  Loree (Mason) OíNeil

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