Poem of the weekCowdray House

shivers through

cross-shaped windows.

On parapets

rooks mutter,

like misplaced clergymen.

In floorless rooms,

no ladies sew

delicate embroidery

and gentlemen

do not theorise war

around oak tables.

No carriage

returns before

those ever open doors.

But if you study

these remains,

the heart of Cowdray

is still aflame.

Mary Charman-Smith