Wollaton Hall

Wollaton Hall, Nottingham

The mist from the river

Settles above

Like a hovering, silver web

Protecting the inhabitants of the lake

A force field engulfing the grounds.

 

The leaves

Like crushed velvet

Are scattered like confetti

With buds of new life

Hidden beneath.

 

The air is cold and crisp

But in a refreshing

Slap-you-awake sense of being.

 

I sit on a wrought iron bench

My eyes slightly glazed

Taking in the morning beauty

Of the old Tudor house.

 

Crowned with crows

Hiding a dark, desperate secret

Buried in the past

Never to be rediscovered.

 

-E xxx

Photo Credit: tiikka at https://www.flickr.com/photos/36599408@N02/3376557384 (although I altered the colour saturation to make it black and white)

 

Spring

Written on a foggy morning whilst walking the grounds at Wollaton Hall, Nottingham.

The old winter falls away

Like a scarf

And coat

Being abandoned upon arriving home

After,

Long

Endless

Days.

The days are now milder

With surprising spurts of sun

And hints of colour

Pinks, yellows, green

Coyly peeking out

Like a teenage girl stealing a look

At her crush

From behind a curtain of hair

It strives

To lift the weight

Of the deadening copse of branches

And deceased decomposing leaves.

Mornings seem lighter

Evenings too

Longer days

For lingering possibilities

Spring is a brew.

-E