Brown signs and oak leaves led the way
passed Derby ,cars,lorries and the rain
through the arch and woodland sheep
classic bridge, geese and splattered paving
to the car-park; check in take your ticket.
National Trust defending to the last
the last of England's heritage.
Close by the house a church,
no longer needed, so it seems,
once a parish church and incense
curator, not a curate at the door
money box and tinkling pennies,
plainsong chanting on a disc,
and behind the iron railings
encased in marble,white and cold
they lie more splendid than in life.
So our day continued through rooms
and stairs,proportions straight from Roman,
a palace fit to paint
where once a village stood
ten thousand acres all their own
and more in Leicestershire
but had to build it here!
The village gone three hundred years
but sign posts still direct us west,
by grace of Derby Council.
The finest man could make
Adam was his name,I hope they paid him well,
and his many tradesmen,now without a home.
for family glory they built this pile.
A mausoleum in the church
conceit in every stone
they sleep behind the iron grill,
do not disturb the dust.Keep out.
The pillars and the dome,
beyond my comprehension and my pen
damask walls,you must see yourself
this is what you buy
as slaves cut down the cane.
There is a room, curved and white
hung with oils in gilded frames
drawn by artists as famous then as now
but of those who sat,I can recall not one
despite a sweeping dress and amble bustle.
Adam needs no mausoleum,look round
a symphony of stone hewn in love,
listen,do you hear the chisel?
look,do you see his pencil?
learn, do you understand?
Then home passed the empty church,
the cold white marble,iron rail
they lie dead,Adam live stands in the park.
One last glance,reluctant drive away,
sheep and ducks and waterfalls
well worth the cold and rain.....
Their money was well spent.