Stately home in Tuesday rain

The Stately Home in Tuesday rain,
brown signs and oak leaves led the way
passed Derby,cars, lorries and the rain
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 last
the last of England's heritage.

Close  the house a church,
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.

Our day 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
but had to build it here!
The village gone three hundred years
but sign posts still direct us west,
by grace of Derby Council.

The finest man could make
Adam his name, I hope they paid him well,
his many tradesmen, now without a home.
for family glory they built this pile.
A mausoleum in the church, conceit in every stone
sleeping behind the iron grill, do not disturb the dust.
The pillars and the dome,
beyond my comprehension and my pen
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 as famous now as then
but of those who sat,I can recall not one
despite a 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?
Then home passed the empty church,
the cold white marble, iron rail
they lie dead, Adam live stands in the park.
One last glance; reluctant drive away,
sheep and ducks and waterfalls
well worth the cold and rain.....
Their money was well spent.