Poem of the weekCowdray House
A DESOLATE breeze
shivers through
cross-shaped windows.
On parapets
rooks mutter,
like misplaced clergymen.
In floorless rooms,
no ladies sew
delicate embroidery
and gentlemen
do not theorise war
around oak tables.
No carriage
returns before
those ever open doors.
But if you study
these remains,
the heart of Cowdray
is still aflame.
Mary Charman-Smith