Mottisfont

Under a sunny blue sky
Stands the Manor, a huge edifice
With a perfect lawn gently sloping away
It whiffs of the old polished rich, the socialites

Where the hooves of horses used to clatter
Teacups chink and public chatter
And trapped within warm stoned walls
Wafts perfume of age-old roses that still enthral

I walk through the door of the past
And feel the ghosts of yesteryear
The Master and the Servants
They're all still within, silently observant

©Kris Prevel
  June 2015