The blacksmiths stood beside the road <br />In olden days gone by, <br />No nothing but the name survives <br />And memories slowly die, <br />Once smithies shod the horses there <br />And time and time again, <br />Within that place that dwelt upon <br />The end of old Forge Lane. <br /> <br />The blacksmiths stood beside the road <br />Its chimney used to smoke, <br />For there the glowing embers burned <br />And fires they did stoke, <br />The hammer on the anvil rang <br />Its regular refrain, <br />They shaped and bent the shoes within <br />The end of old Forge Lane. <br /> <br />The blacksmiths stood beside the road <br />Where horses used to stay, <br />As Harry Pointon clenched their hoofs <br />And prised the old away, <br />While Fuller Thomas held them still <br />And gripped the leather rein, <br />They filed and nailed new shoes upon <br />The end of old Forge Lane. <br /> <br />The blacksmiths stood beside the road <br />A barrow just outside, <br />And there its doors were never closed <br />But always opened wide, <br />Now just the fading photographs <br />Are all that do remain, <br />Of times that passed so long before <br />The end of old Forge Lane.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/forge-lane/
