Grey Citadel
It were an old barn, ancient even when I were a kid,
a grey castle we played in, safe from summer’s heat.
A creaking door that we imagined to be a coffin lid,
and we played hide and seek in the piled hay so sweet.
Just an old barn it were, but to us, a palace for we kings,
and many a knight like us rode forth on stick horses bold.
We rode around it, the trees our Sherwood’s leafy ring,
and never did we tire of our ancient wooden keep so old.
The seat of the old wagon within a king’s throne,
where lordly decisions were made with raised slat sword.
Our haven from the rain, where we might set the tone,
and hold court in the grey palace upon that dry grass sward.
How men talk to their wives
Grey Citadel
I like this poem, nice.