LAVENDER HILLS
Posted: Wed Nov 24, 2010 9:44 am
LAVENDER HILLS
The day was misty, foggy. In the woods branches were bare.
Dry twigs crackled underfoot, endless night lingered there
in the dark and misty hollows, in the dell where bluebells grew
and green moss and orange fungi flourished in the dampness to.
‘Cross the green sward of the parklands stood a fine and stately home,
with a history of tragedy which over years had grown
into a tale of love lost tragically as is often the case
when war appears quite magically, and young men are erased.
The story goes she wanders, where yellow chrysanthemums
and sweet alyssum edge the garden beds plus pink geraniums.
Lavender scents the air sweetly – it’s fragrance lingers on
inside the house despite the fact so many years have gone.
She’s seen wearing large petticoats, beneath her full silk skirts,
with a froth of Nottingham lace at the throat of her cream shirt .
Her bonnet’s trimmed with rosebuds and her veil misty and sheer.
Dressed in her best she’s waiting for her lover to appear.
Late at night down at the station as the steam trains hiss and roar
along the rails, furnaces blasting red hot heat from boilers maw.
When the whistle’s eerie wail is heard echoing ‘cross the moor
she stands wraith like in darkness – as she will for evermore.
On those days misty and foggy when the trees limbs are all bare
and the leaves are piled in coloured drifts, and wood smoke scents the air
in the dark and misty hollows where in summer bluebells grow;
do you hear her weeping softly? Can you see her drifting slow?
Can you smell the scent of violets her favourite perfume?
Faintly hear the harpsichord – Brahms nocturne from a room
that is cloaked in white dust covers and you know no one is there?
Yet the notes hang softly, hauntingly on the cold misty air.
Then it seems you’ve seen the lady who ‘tis said still haunts the grounds
of the Manor House at Lavender Hills. Those stories do abound.
Unrequited lovers lingering, lost, forsaken for all time.
Is it true? Well yes it is – she was a relative of mine.
Maureen Clifford © 11/10
The day was misty, foggy. In the woods branches were bare.
Dry twigs crackled underfoot, endless night lingered there
in the dark and misty hollows, in the dell where bluebells grew
and green moss and orange fungi flourished in the dampness to.
‘Cross the green sward of the parklands stood a fine and stately home,
with a history of tragedy which over years had grown
into a tale of love lost tragically as is often the case
when war appears quite magically, and young men are erased.
The story goes she wanders, where yellow chrysanthemums
and sweet alyssum edge the garden beds plus pink geraniums.
Lavender scents the air sweetly – it’s fragrance lingers on
inside the house despite the fact so many years have gone.
She’s seen wearing large petticoats, beneath her full silk skirts,
with a froth of Nottingham lace at the throat of her cream shirt .
Her bonnet’s trimmed with rosebuds and her veil misty and sheer.
Dressed in her best she’s waiting for her lover to appear.
Late at night down at the station as the steam trains hiss and roar
along the rails, furnaces blasting red hot heat from boilers maw.
When the whistle’s eerie wail is heard echoing ‘cross the moor
she stands wraith like in darkness – as she will for evermore.
On those days misty and foggy when the trees limbs are all bare
and the leaves are piled in coloured drifts, and wood smoke scents the air
in the dark and misty hollows where in summer bluebells grow;
do you hear her weeping softly? Can you see her drifting slow?
Can you smell the scent of violets her favourite perfume?
Faintly hear the harpsichord – Brahms nocturne from a room
that is cloaked in white dust covers and you know no one is there?
Yet the notes hang softly, hauntingly on the cold misty air.
Then it seems you’ve seen the lady who ‘tis said still haunts the grounds
of the Manor House at Lavender Hills. Those stories do abound.
Unrequited lovers lingering, lost, forsaken for all time.
Is it true? Well yes it is – she was a relative of mine.
Maureen Clifford © 11/10
