I do recall
many a trip to Speke Hall.
The trees have seen it all
kingdoms rise and fall.
The old house stands
guardian of the land.
Now the airport has come.
and planes run
where once the squire walked
and talked
or perhaps shot
game for the pot.
Old books
one can not touch.
A family’s past preserved
behind rope.
Would the squire choke
at the sight
of the National Trust shop
where jam can be bought by the pot?
Do the dead
shake their head
as I gaze on their four poster bed?
The past conserved
In stones and words
As featherless birds
fly
Through troubled skies.

—

The construction of Speke Hall was started in 1530 and ended in 1598. It is one of my favourite haunts and is situated a few miles from my mother’s home in Liverpool. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Speke_Hall).