There's something beloved about
      an ancient place.

Entropy increases.
 Nature devours.
  Nothing lasts forever.

Nothing of man can be built of stone 
   sturdy enough or steel resistant
      enough to become ancient
         by mere persistence.

It must be loved.
   Someone must clean the grass
      from the cracks, must scrub
      moss & mold, must replace
      pieces that slough off...
      (& must do it all with tender
      craftsmanship.)

I suspect anything ancient
   that's higher than my knee
     is a Theseus's ship:
     rebuilt stone by stone through the ages
     until only a wafting idea of the place
       remains ancient.