Our village’s elegant ruin
Was once owned by an eccentric Peer.
Navigating between four ladies
He would sometimes drop anchor here. 

He attended church in his sneakers
And wrapped himself up in a shawl.
His rooms were all hot as a furnace
Although he could ride out a squall.

The War put a curb on his movements
But his place was let to the forces,
Who recovered their need for action
On finding Downs good for horses.

But alas, things became too festive:
Something set a chimney on fire.
It fell through the roof, but they all thought
It was safer not to enquire.

The War Office acknowledged the blame.
The Peer viewed the windfall with glee:
While battling head-on against fortune
Four ports proved too many by three.

But, while casting off moorings, the house
Had suffered from total neglect.
He found top floors ravaged by wood-worm
And damp when he came to inspect.

(A workman while testing the rafters
Fell down through the worm-eaten floor.
He fetched up, dazed, in the basement –
But otherwise much as before).

So he scooped out the middle but left
The south wing and fine north façade:
Cars now drive through the vanished front doors
To geranium tubs in the yard.

For the planned flats for workers misfired
(Their wives would not rise to the bait)
He auctioned them off to the public
Who set up a private estate.

Now, National Heritage while seeking
More ‘listings’ eyes us with favour –
But handed us all strict instructions
To follow their rules of behaviour.

Elizabeth Bowyer