Stately Home

     
Brown signs and oak leaves lead the way      
      
through the arch and woodland sheep,      
classic bridge, geese-splattered paving      
to the car-park; check in take your ticket.      
National Trust defending to the end,      
the last of England's heritage.      
     
Close by the house a chapel,      
no longer needed, so it seems,      
once a parish church and incense      
curator, not a curate, at the door      
money box and tinkling pennies,      
plainsong chanting on a disc,      
behind the iron railings.      
     
Encased in marble, white and cold      
they lie more splendid than in life,      
continued through rooms  and stairs,    
proportions straight from Rome,      
a palace where once a village stood,      
ten thousand acres all their own      
and more in Leicestershire      
yet had to build it here!      
(The village gone three hundred years)      
The finest man could make      
Adam was his name, I hope they paid him well,      
his many tradesmen now without a home.    
      
For family glory they built this pile.      
A mausoleum conceit in every stone      
sleeping behind iron grills and dust.      
pillars and dome, beyond comprehension      
damask walls, you must see yourself      
this is what you buy . . . . . .    
as slaves cut down the cane.      
     
There is a room, curved and white      
hung with oils in gilded frames      
drawn by artists famous then as now,      
of those who sat,I recall not one      
despite sweeping dress and amble bustle.      
Adam needs no mausoleum,look round      
a symphony of stone hewn in love,      
listen,do you hear the chisel?      
look,do you see his pencil?      
learn, do you understand?      
     
Home passed the empty church,      
cold white marble, iron rails      
they lie dead, Adam standing in the park.      
One last glance,leave and drive away,      
sheep and ducks and waterfalls.