Ken's Poetry

The Olde Swanne

Braughing

There’s a model tricycle hanging in the window,
a copper kettle and a butter churner,
black beamed ceiling and walls,
a deep set brick fireplace,
an iron latched miss-fit door
and a creaking wooden floor.
Who could have hid in the mezzanine room
that hangs from the rafters
and peered through the peephole window
onto the chutneys, marmalades and jams
that glint in the teatime light
at the back of the room
where the ceiling is high?

You can sit outside by the pond
under green parasols
where the skeleton of a barn stands
precariously twisted and bent.
There are geese and ducks and dogs
and summer days galore
stretching into the past;
and after a decent wait
tea will come in a china pot
and cakes on a china plate.