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Forge Cottage, Withernwick (Rewritten)I loved those old cart horse Shires, big and solid and calm Billy Bulson let me ride one once ‘tatie picking on his farm; And Uncle Wilf would shoe them. We'd hear the clip clop Of hooves across the yard towards his blacksmith's shop. They'd duck t heads through the door and once inside Stand there patiently as their halter rope was tied To one of those special rings set deep in the forge brick. Uncle would approach them slowly then, part of the trick To keep them from fretting under the low dark roof. Firmly grasping a fetlock then to raise a large hoof Which he would cradle between two bent knees Held firmly there so he could work at his ease Cutting, filing and shaping ready for each shoe So that each was fitted perfectly, firm and true. I can't forget the smell as the shoe, still hot Was laid in place to sear its own right spot Then deftly nailed and then The process repeated over again Till each old shoe Replaced with new. So many times I stood there as a little boy, Scenes I recall with so much sheer joy. That world is gone, those times near dead Except I store them safely here in my head. Forge Cottage is now a weekend retreat And Uncle's yard once clean and neat Is full of rampant weeds. The Forge remains, a building preserved. With its long village history The very least it, and the past, deserved. Vote for this poem
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