the house groans with age, weeping at the peeling walls.
it's high ceilings, once dawned with pristine chandeliers and decor,
are now cluttered with dust and mildew.
the bay window, once a resting place for a lady in waiting,
now bare and deserted.
the gardens expand for miles,
still well kept and manicured.
yet the house remains a ghostly figure.
the hidden bedrooms and ballrooms tell a story of British history,
yet foretell it's modern future.
stately houses 'found everywhere' are transformed into modern slabs of brick,
fulfilling the high brow market.
a precious gem dating back to the second world war,
I find myself in awe of it's grace and elegance.
three days spent exploring this ageing beauty,
and i feel sad leaving its beaconing doors.
it cries out to it's visitors,
hoping one may try and stop its quietus.
hope fades like the paint on it's walls,
and it rests regrettably.
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