The old coach house, now restored,
still with ancient stones where placed, first laid.
Swirling forms in ornamental display,
rivened, scoured by time and rain and snow
across the years and hours that they have known.
Roof still capped with trident stones,
ornate chimney rising above blue-grey slates
but on longer used; inside there are no grates.
Listen carefully, give past times your ears.
The horses' hooves on the cobbles clop
and they gently sigh and neigh
as standing they spy fresh bales of hay.
And now the traffic noise, as it goes by so fast,
overcomes those gentle distant sounds
which linger but are no longer found.
As I sit here on the new-mown grass
just watching as time continues on its way
the old coach house speaks, has so much to say.
Ah David, without knowing you have taken me back many years, as a child, the Tudor homes had Coach houses done over into living quarters, sometimes free standing, some over the garage. Many homes in our state still have them, , But Mike the gardner lived in ours and I remember him giving us rides in a big old red wheelbarrel...He stayed on there after Daddy died 'till we moved. Your images are well, there David in all his glory....thanks for this jewel.........marci.xo
At last, someone who writes real poetry. A beautiful poem, painting a picture in words. Marilyn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
oooopppsss 'there David' should be 'they're David