The Cart Shed

In Sissinghurst, where gardens dream,

Cranbrook’s lanes and gentle stream,

There rests a place both quaint and rare,

A gatehouse old with country air.

Once kept the carts, the tools, the grain,

Now welcomes guests through sun and rain.

The cart shed, cradled in the past,

With stories whispered by each raftered mast.

Its beams are broad, time worn and wide,

They creak with pride, not things to hide.

The garden hums with green embrace,

A pool reflects the sky’s soft face,

And ivy dances on the wall,

While robins serenade the fall.

Inside, the hearth is warm and low,

Stone floors that cool your feet below,

But light streams in through windows tall,

This rustic calm, it soothes us all.

Outside, the orchards stretch and sigh,

As kestrels trace the open sky.

The hedgerows bloom, the bluebells ring,

This land still wears the crown of spring.

A haven carved from toil and time,

Now kissed by rest and peace, sublime.

So come and stay, let stillness spread,

Among the beams above your head.

For hearts find ease, and souls are led,

To linger long, at The Cart Shed.