Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2020
Elizabethan manor house
beneath a bleak October sky;
where black crows call from moss-stained trees
and hapless leaves hang where they died.

No breath, nor breeze, despoils the day
that fades now in its lowered gloom;
beset with clouds, a weakling sun
casts little light into the room.

Through mullion windows’ diamond panes
a manicured garden lays;
in muted fading colours now,
with mem'ries of hot summer days.

Electric candles flicker gold,
from panelled walls gaunt portraits stare;
old Lords and Ladies long since dead,
view everyone without a care.

And as the guide concludes his tour
and visitors head for their bus;
a small child glances back to where
he made an ice-cream-spilling fuss.

In black and satin stands a man,
his doublet slashed with crimson fine;
a drooling wolfhound at his side,
he bows in mockery, divine.
Al Drood
Written by
Al Drood  M/North Yorkshire
(M/North Yorkshire)   
65
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems