"This was the family dining room,"

      the lady stands in simple tweeds

      her feet astride the dark oak floor

reflecting history with all its deeds

sombre still with shadowed time

      the tumbling drapes discreetly back

      and panelling fading into black.

An open doorway suddenly reveals

an ancient visitor visibly thrilled

      whose wife peruses the outline plan

      as only elderly people can.

"This was the Duchess's private closet,"

another guide announces

      his thrusting head with eagles' eyes

      takes in the familiar field.

 

Then we had our coffees and cake

in a stable block in the garden's shade

      everything harmonized brick and brac

      where cursing horsemen embarrassed the maid

in eighteenth century palisade.

The brochure explains the garden design

      Italian influence, yews and box

      with nature pinned back in fashionable style

when suddenly..... the scent of phlox.

The Japanese arrive at last

     from hideous coach disgorged

      in reverence recording digital views

and another link is lovingly forged

by the National Trust with all it's friends.

      Today we learnt an awful lot about

      aristocratic houses.

for now we could be Ann of Cleves

yearning for the autumn leaves.

 

"The house will be closing in fifteen minutes,"

the lady in tweeds descends

      inspecting the floors and fastening doors

  we leave the spirits to their dusty dreams

and their accursed pointless schemes.