It Isn’t Anymore

Standing like a river-roaming crane
Beside a Narrow country Lane
Miles and miles outside of town
Was a weathered barn, faded brown.
For many years it stood there
Sky-scraping the country air
Like a sentinel of farm and feed
Guards the growth of each new breed.
But time marched on every day
And the farmer has passed away
After caving in and falling down
It lay in pieces on the ground.
So, unlike just fifty years before
Where it was, it isn’t anymore.