A Spectre at Harlaxton Manor
A poem on the lives of ghosts
Set in homespun stone,
sinking in guileless sand.
A breathless, throaty monotone,
a life once lived so grand.
No distinctive feature
adorns her glacial guise.
Like a mangled stunted creature,
she perches paralysed.
A ghostly figurine
wailing for departure.
No sides are grassy green
for the nearing marcher.
A woman, a widow, a witch,
a being of bounteous shapes.
A spectre, a siren, a snitch,
hiding behind your drapes.
C.B
Context:
I wrote this poem after reminiscing on my trip to Harlaxton Manor last year, which is just down the road from me. The fellow who built it was named Gregory Gregory, he became consumed by building the house and making it as grand as possible, to the point of madness. He left the world unmarried and childless.
In the early 1900s, Violet Van Der Elst bought the house. She was an eccentric woman who wrote ghost stories and performed seances in the halls of Harlaxton. She also campaigned against the death penalty and had an unsuccessful political career. Violet, unfortunately, died in a lunatic asylum.
The Manor is grand and gothic, but there’s a madness in the walls… or so they say.
