Classic Poem

Two rows of stiff poplars, wind-bitten and grey,
Flank the high-cobbled courtyard in long, serried lines;
And between them the old stable-clock dimly shines
With its cracked yellow dial defying decay.

It was here that six lumbering, thick-barreled mares
Were wont to be harnessed to my Lord's glass coach
When he drove out to call on his neighbours and broach
Some scheme of importance to landed affairs.

Now the leaves of the poplars may settle and fall
And drift where they will in the juts of the wall,
While the grass has half-buried the sharp-pointed stones.

A ripple of pigeons waves over the yard,
And a toothless old bitch, who is nothing but bones,
Growls drowsily at them to prove she's on guard.

With a wheeze, and a whirr, and a horrible catch,
The clock strikes eighteen; it is two by my watch.