The old coach house, now restored, <br />still with ancient stones where placed, first laid. <br />Swirling forms in ornamental display, <br />rivened, scoured by time and rain and snow <br />across the years and hours that they have known. <br />Roof still capped with trident stones, <br />ornate chimney rising above blue-grey slates <br />but on longer used; inside there are no grates. <br />Listen carefully, give past times your ears. <br />The horses' hooves on the cobbles clop <br />and they gently sigh and neigh <br />as standing they spy fresh bales of hay. <br />And now the traffic noise, as it goes by so fast, <br />overcomes those gentle distant sounds <br />which linger but are no longer found. <br />As I sit here on the new-mown grass <br />just watching as time continues on its way <br />the old coach house speaks, has so much to say.<br /><br />David Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-coach-house/
