A collaborative poem written at Erddig 28 March 2015
Erddig Renga
Winter, black and white,
stately home squats broad on fields,
lovely in the light.
Snow over the frozen grey lake.
Snow on topiary chessmen set in lines.
A blue Christmas ball
reflects light scattered by trees.
Moon shines through windows.
The revellers are asleep,
the fields miss their palest sheep.
Handbells hanging
silent from a banister.
Could it be Christmas?
Jingle bells, wishing wells,
who can tell, that’s the knell.
When the sun came in
through the tight-shut half-moon glass,
eyes screwed up to squint.
Glasses darkened into night,
day’s fast passing out of sight.
The brush, the vacuum
and the firebell near the door
wait for attention.
Dust upon the hall carpet,
so easily got rid of.
Bowler hat, dark moon
too big, eclipses her eyes
forever shadowed.
Staring at the solar disc
no-one told her of the risk.
In steel and fused glass
the sculpture weeps blue green tears
into dark water.
Colours reflected merge
as golden fish for food emerge.
Photographs or
oil paints plus verses
reveal old faces.
All the household’s fabric
hanging against whitewashed brick.
Insects on the sill,
ladybirds just standing there
ready to fly off.
They unfurl delicate wings,
gossamer catching the sun.
The shadow of moon
on the children dressed as maids.
Alarmed, they look up
as the purple clouds travel
over the moonlit green lake.
Mister Philip Yorke
was the last one to survive.
The house is still here.
Crooked, unexpected,
sinking into the coal mine.