Converted (Poetry)

The place was practically a ruin, of course
when first they saw it.
Picturesque in the sunlight
as ruins often are
with April’s needling shafts
making a colander of the holed roof
and silver spotting the floor
like a stopped mirror ball
in some deserted discotheque.

It had potential. It was enchanting.
They were in love — both
with each other and the barn
and the trees that leaned in
to welcome them.
Even the tall flowering weeds
added something —
the promise of rustic romance.

It took a lot of work
to make it pass for liveable —
to salvage and convert
then insulate for basic comfort
within the plans agreed and still
keep its agricultural charm
unspoilt and solid — all natural
wood and local stone.

They saved its simple features —
shaped it to a home
carved the date that they moved in
over the door
triumphant as new settlers
who have tamed their patch
of semi-wilderness.

At night the timbers creaked
and groaned
soft as any creature dreaming
and country smells arose —
the scent of hay
the sweet musk of dairy cows
spilling — spreading — hanging
a faint milky cloud.
Sometimes, too, the sound
of rhythmic chewing
soothing on the edge of sleep.

The barn held them all —
layered its many memories
and gave them shelter
offering room enough
and imagination
to share.