A Distilled Spirit Poem by Christopher Woodall

In a square-set forehead of stone
The windows still show
Through to an old vaulted hall
Filled with portraits and much gold
As you would expect beneath a Serpent,

And the old chase where in our youth
We brought down crenulated deer
Rolls out like a riverbed under the bridge
Where coaches would first appear
And see sanctuary from the wild roads

That used to turn through these woods
Both natural and planted -
Now Autumn fire runs through them all
On the North wind, faster and more frantic
Than horses on the scent of wolves.

The crowds of guests have slowly gone
To the islands of everlasting sun
Leaving just one living face
Gazing up at your weathered museum
And wandering the grounds beloved.