Will George Poet

The Travellers’ Inn


In History steeped, stood the boughs of rough hewn oak.

Shadows constant, paused and passed on their way.

Coaches of four, and travellers fair, stayed.

The seasons saw their share of all trade.


Innkeepers; husbands and wives, played merry host.

Common food was the simple fare.

Beer brewed in the locality often consumed.

Wines, a treat unusual, exceptional and rare.


Where, went those who took their leave?

Did they visit green valleys and wooded dales?

Was it song that called and heart strings plucked?

Alas! It was the riches of iron and coal.


Rape of pastures and stripping of forest.

Mines, short intrusions into the depths,

Caused the travellers to find their way,

Without respite to partake of inhospitality.


Echoes fell around the hills of toil.

Those rich enough spent the spoils.

Some profited by the intrusion,

Others gave up more than they could contain.


Calmer times and silent moments are now found.

The sedate meandering of dirty streams,

Find a footpath to the open sea.

The musical song of birds now hearkens.


The Inn remains, in character grown.

Watches, listens, see the traveller come and go.

Beckons still to the inquisitive heart.

Lulls the active to wait and pause.


Three Counties, their boundaries crossed,

Shared in the draw of fate.

Each one its mark impressed,

To capture those errant hearts.


© Will George

May 2nd, 2007