Tired Barns

I have borrowed from Robert Frost's "Birches" for the first two and a half lines. The rest is straight out of Whipple. I am moved by the primitive, elegiac beauty of tired barns. No one's making them any more, and I hope not to see the day they all have fallen down.

When I see barns lean to left and right
Along the lines of straighter, cleaner sheds
I like to think the years have granted them perspective
of a kind denied the newly-built.
A point of view, born of knowing
the things new sheds can never comprehend.
The bleat of a lamb, newly born
Left across the field by its foolish dam
The siding strains, calling back.
Afterbirth and greasepot
Rope, sweet hay, pigeon feathers
Carcass hanging, gleaming corn and chaffy oats.
What is kept in the galvanized shed?
A car, a lawnmower, cans and bottles
Tools and tires.

The wood barn leans over, listening
For hoofbeats, the cluck and slap of reins
Gentle belch of cowcud, new chicken peep
The rolling sigh of blue doves.