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.
David Taylor
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-coach-house/
