There Lies the 17th Baroness of Haryngworth.
De La Zouche.
A cloudy day with the occasional drop of rain.
A bleak but warm expanse of green
And lightning-struck brown-skeleton-trees
Below the ancient South Downs.
The parish church is open
On sundays at nine fifteen,
Where worship has taken place
Since the 15th Century.
Deer crowd under a tree some little distance
From the quiet graveyard,
Where the orange moss on the headstones
Clash with the fading daffodils,
And the Bluebells swell on the outskirts
And whisper of Summer's close coming.
On a grassy outlet, a stag stands
Arrogantly alone, holding his heavy
headpiece to the changeable breeze,
Rabbits and red pheasants fleeing his stare,
As he looks on out to the horizon,
In search of Summer's hazy kiss.
Towards the house
Two rusty lawn-rollers stand lazily
At the boundary of an unkept cricket pitch;
"We are waiting for Summer," they say,
And the proud stag laughs.
The ice is kept cool under the hill,
Shaded by a great door -
A portal into Narnia, where it's always winter,
Or maybe somewhere darker.
All is uneven but the church roof and,
Beyond the peeping haha,
The archetypal English Hall,
Stern and unyielding as the mighty stag
that wanders its grounds,
Strong and square and harking back
To the Interbellum
(we wait for Gatsby to appear)
And listen silently for the echoes
From further back in time,
Of the first Elizabeth
And baying Irish hounds near the fireplace,
And stable-boys whistling in the straw.
A pilot takes a flying lesson,
Circling the house in awe of the bird's-eye view
Like the jackdaws that hide in the tall pines
opposite the waiting rollers.
And a girl with dirtied curly hair and Welsh and
And a girl with dirtied curly hair and Welsh and
Russian blood in her veins,
Gallops her horse along the crest of the hill.
Her helmet is purple.
Her grip is secure.
Her eyes fixed on the house at the bottom,
Where the crow guards a swing under a black tree,
And Magnolia hugs the windowsills
And the coats of arms,
And the coats of arms,
And the world races by.
The old stag winks knowingly,
A blackbird chatters -
Yes, yes this is our little secret
Yes, yes this is our little secret
Yes, this is the place to be,
Yes there are great paintings in the library
And down the great hallways.
But we look at black and white photographs,
and gravestones and consider the death of a Twelve year old
And the awful contrast to the age of the house
beyond the breathing stone walls.
I tell you how Grandma wants a marble angel,
And Grandpa wants a wooden cross,
And how it should probably be the other way around.
The stableboy is now a groundsman
Unlocking the gate to mow the lawn.
"It could do with a water too" I tell him.
The sun fights through the gloom
And our backs begin to warm
And the stag turns his head to leave his lonely outcrop,
And so we leave too, in the other direction,
Wandering back up the winding drive,
Up past the old smoking-house
And the stoney lion that does not stir
As we turn our backs to go home.
Up past the cattle-grid
And then onto the main-road and
Modern life and our small momentary
Escape remains a well kept secret
With the regal stag at Parham,
Where all is at peace.
Yes, that was the place to be.
And as we leave, the Heron
Flies back from the Mesozoic Age
To its nest by the lake and the summerhouse.
All is at peace. And it is like we were never here.
Yes, this is our little secret,
The daffodils tarry
And Parham waits for the hazy kiss of Summer.
And Parham waits for the hazy kiss of Summer.
