A Manor on The Moors
written by: Leah Chrestien
Bitter bleak winds harden my face,
tangle my hair in dark matted locks,
blur my sight with wind-swept dust –
unsettling the water in lonely lochs.
Whistling through the stunted copse,
strong winds sway the tasseling grass;
trudging against the fierce wind’s tide,
I plod through clag and muddied pass.
Nestled between green rolling hills,
exposed to the ire of howling gales,
rises the desolate manor house
surrounded by bare and barren dales.
Forlorn and forsaken are its walls,
a giant lock hangs at the iron gate;
leaning towards the uneven grounds,
the manor crumbles under its weight.
Ferns and sedges split the stones,
dark patches stain the manor wall;
resting beneath the lonely boughs
are unkempt graves on a grassy knoll.
No one loiters in the garden paths,
the winding staircase shows its age,
the statues stare with hollow eyes
straight from a Gothic novel’s page.
When heavens shake with furious rage,
on dark, sullen and stormy days,
lovely is the manor’s imposing form
when the sky is bereft of sun-rays.
Still lovelier is the loneliness
that descends upon the sombre walls;
no hissing whispers reach my ear,
silence haunts the stately halls.
The wind does play mischievous tricks
and sound of laughter fills the hill;
by pale moon’s light, one often sees,
a lone dark form by the window sill.
You’ll see me there on blusterous days,
not turning back though rains beset,
the manor broods in mysterious moods;
murky, yet lovely is its lonely silhouette.
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