The house is cold, it’s always icy, even in the midst of summer
When the world is stripping layers, craving ice creams
And we are trailing through the gaping halls and marble steps
With wrought iron rails that once were touched by kings and queens
And now they’re gripped by older ladies and their grandchildren,
Neither seeing what the other does, but then we all take from the world
Exactly what we want. Some will see the history layered,
Like wallpaper, one sheet on top of the other, peeling in the corners,
Showing just what needs to be shown. And some will see the art,
While others long to run down tended lawns, screaming with joy
And tumbling as our mothers yell, worrying needlessly
About the grass stains that will cover our knees.
But at 4:46pm, when volunteers are looking at their watches
And thinking about that well earned cup of tea, I gaze
From a window where an Austen adaptation filmed,
Something grand with Colin Firth, that made the women swoon.
I’d like pretend for just a few more precious hours,
That I’m an Austen lady, Miss Bingley or Miss Bennet,
Either, I don’t care, as long as I can cling to that ideal
That love is real, and men out there will offer up
The magic this house saw, in days so distant from such times as these.