Olden

In the olden days when mist would cling to laneways,
Cobblestones whispered tales of knights and dames,
Their voices low, like hymns in ancient prayer,
A world where time was measured by the sun’s soft flare.

Market stalls wore canvas, dyed in muted hues,
The baker’s loaf, still warm, would scent the morning air,
Children chased hoops of iron down the lane,
Their laughter ringing, free from modern chain.

Blacksmith’s hammer sang a steady, ringing beat,
While seamstresses stitched with thread of finest wool,
Each stitch a story, each seam a quiet feat,
In garments made to last, both warm and cool.

Letters were penned with quill, ink blotting slow,
Sealed with wax that bore the family’s crest,
Sent by post‑boy on a trusty steed’s tread,
To reach a lover’s heart, or bring a friend’s request.

Evenings drew the curtains of twilight grey,
Families gathered ’round the peat‑lit fire,
Elders spoke of legends, of battles far away,
While young ones dreamed of lands beyond the mire.

Now those olden days have faded into lore,
Yet echoes linger in the stones and lanes we tread,
A gentle reminder of what came before,
In every quiet lane, where history is fed.