Forge Lane Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

The blacksmiths stood beside the road
In olden days gone by,
No nothing but the name survives
And memories slowly die,
Once smithies shod the horses there
And time and time again,
Within that place that dwelt upon
The end of old Forge Lane.

The blacksmiths stood beside the road
Its chimney used to smoke,
For there the glowing embers burned
And fires they did stoke,
The hammer on the anvil rang
Its regular refrain,
They shaped and bent the shoes within
The end of old Forge Lane.

The blacksmiths stood beside the road
Where horses used to stay,
As Harry Pointon clenched their hoofs
And prised the old away,
While Fuller Thomas held them still
And gripped the leather rein,
They filed and nailed new shoes upon
The end of old Forge Lane.

The blacksmiths stood beside the road
A barrow just outside,
And there its doors were never closed
But always opened wide,
Now just the fading photographs
Are all that do remain,
Of times that passed so long before
The end of old Forge Lane.