No cruel voices could enter our silence -

The first Lord Portland could ride from here to Bath without leaving his land - 

The man with a beard like Joseph Conrad and half moon glasses smiled a shy courtly smile - 

Penelope and I were walking the Stour Valley way from Blandford to Bryanston - 

Climbing up the winding path, we'd heard birdsong in the hanger - 

We'd glimpsed a wide river and walked into a field of white poppies - 

Dreams had haunted each pale flower - 

I first came here fifteen years ago the man said - 

I'd lived in Suffolk - the winds would blow in across the sea -

The third Lord Portman died soon after the second - the fourth sold the estate -  

I admired the gentle garden, the book filled rooms in the gracious house - 

House Martins flew above the mossy rooftops - 

A sheep grazed amongst indolent bees - 

We smelled the perfume of the earth, the scent of ancient roses - 

The air was sultry, heavy with the past - 

No cruel voices could enter our silence - 

12.30

Tuesday 21 June 2016

Bryanston