Intent winds disturb the slumber
Of the Yew trees; trimmed or humble,
Watching at the guard posts of the
Slate grey clouds above far meadows
Skulls with antlers cast great shadows
‘Bove the brick framed doorway, and owns
Canons Ashby house.
Dark wood panels, faded colour,
Cobwebs hang in lifetime’s squalor,
Gold framed lords of noted pallor,
Hardly lived-in house.
Cracks in creaking floorboards showing
Light from empty cellars glowing.
To said floorboards, walls are bowing,
Old and bitter house.
Through small windows – iron barred – is
Grounds of austere held-back iris.
On the sill a half-mad fly is
Trapped inside the house.
‘Fore the view, deceptive flowers;
Wilted leaves of daisy cowers,
Budded stem and rosemary prowess
Dark secretive house.
Corridors seem warped and twisted,
Paintings where the eyes are misted,
Tightly lipped and balled-up-fisted
Feeling to the house.
Paranoia, people watching,
Hypnotising mirror’s blotching,
Tarnished surface, shadows dodging,
Memory plagued house.
Chilling drafts and cold oppression,
Looming presence, new possession.
Take me and commit transgression,
‘Come part of the house.