Museum

Not far from here, there stands a manor house
About a courtyard built, of ochre stone,
Where ancient bones of animals lie spread
In glass-topped cases, shuttered from the sun.

Today we climbed the stairs, broad steps of oak,
And saw behind a painted private door.
A sunlit corridor, uneven boards
That creak beneath our footfalls. Cluttered rooms
With cardboard boxes, dummies, testimonies
To exhibitions past. And down below,
The empty court.

Our room is on the corner. Ancient lights
Are on two sides. A massive bookcase fills
One wall. Five paintings hang: a lonely cottage,
An urban riverscape, a tower in snow ...
We talk of words and books. And round us range
Strange furniture in styles of long ago.

Downstairs are chattering children, milling, jostling
And fingering and staring, curious,
At phonographs and fans, meandering
Past the glass cases. Lifeless figures, costumed
From other centuries, pose in dim light,
Silent. Then all the kids are shepherded
Across the park and noises die away.

And leaves turn brown and cutting breezes blow
And coots and mallards crowd for crumbs or swim
The choppy chilly lake, and Autumn falls.