Name On Name

Today I intend to go

To Houghton Hall

The home of

The Cholmondeley's

Oh how I love that name

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Yes, how much better than being

The Fourth Earl of Nidderdale

To be the Buckminster Fuller

Of Cholmondeley

MOD Sculthorpe

And RAF Sculthorpe

Are both nearby

Perhaps once strategic bases

Yes, landing sites

For Sandringham Estate

Or for the first Prime Minister

Of Great Britain

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Should be fine

The Cholmondeley’s

Have had a presence

At Houghton Hall

Since the first Marquess

Inherited the place

In the 18th century

I make that to be

Quite a good while ago

Lord Cholmondeley

Was educated at Eton

And studied

At the Sorbonne, lucky lad

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Should be fine

Now he is married

To Rose Hanbury

They have two boys

And a daughter named Iris

But first for breakfast

Bacon, two fried eggs

Toast and beans

Should be fine

For a day which

Will mostly be spent

Out of doors

In the Cholmondeley’s garden

 

Dust On Dust

Where did religion go wrong

My grandma, of the Methodist Chapel

Fervently sang each and every song

I had no doubts as a young man

That I would marry in church

It was, as they say, already in the can

Yet I did show a certain lack of respect

A couple of drinks before the service

Which any self-aware vicar would detect

It is true my children went to Sunday school

And both were duly christened

As if ordained by some ancient familial rule

My daughter followed a similar pathway

Married in church (after a period of forced attendance)

Her children christened, on a parish christening day

Yet neither I nor my children regularly attend

In fact in my case hardly ever

Except the Christmas Mass, on which we all do depend

But this is ceremony, not belief

This is the absence of practice

From which we have taken our relief

The song books and the prayer books

Are left bereft and unused, laid

In the cases, in the nannies and the crooks

These buildings once so filled with buoyant life

Have let themselves be emptied

Foraging instead the paths of argument and strife

Fame

Fifteen minutes later

I pull into the Sandringham Estate car park

Already I know that this is my kind of place

I will take lunch in their cafe restaurant

But first to let the gardens overwhelm me

Down, through the avenue of limes, to the Buddha

Then a stroll, by the dark brown waters

Which hereabouts they choose to call lakes

I have the Whitby breaded whole-tail scampi

With a bottle of beer-shandy

Due to my latest diet I don’t do dessert

Though I am calling in at EH Prior & Sons, later

But no rush, not for now, it is a time to dwell, to look around

Find a quiet bench, or a seat under a pergola 

Actually I stumble upon St Mary Magdalene Church

Which is bound to do something for me

Dust behind the door

Dust on the beams and lintels

A real sniff of the worship of royalty

Outside the headstones are arranged in rows

Back inside, I do take a few moments

Sit on a pew beneath a stained glass window

Look forwards to the altar, my view

Obscured, by tourists just like me

It is not a big place, but does look cared for

As it ought to be, if our princesses

Are to be christened here, as was

The nation’s favourite, the late Princess Diana

 

Arrive Be Depart

I drive down Beach Road in Heacham

Park up, on the roadside, just before the public toilets

I have it in mind to walk on the sands

For an hour or so; a time simply to be

Getting ready to head off to Sandringham Estate

I take the camera, in its bag, out of the car boot

Check the Four-Hundred zoom lens is attached

The beach is gated, with a large, welded, angle iron affair

With such a dearth of caravans

Is it to stop joy riders joy riding on the beach

Yes, there are masses of mobile homes

Laid out in a maximisation of space sort of way

Just like Lincolnshire, or anywhere else I guess

I stroll rather than walk, meander even

As the sea defences become ever more apparent

I carry on, as far as what I take to be

A stretch of fresh water

A chap in a sleeveless, bright-yellow vest

Swigs from a can of lager, his military style camouflage shorts

Stand him out as someone who is here on vacation, always

South Beach Road runs out into a cart track

Although it does return to where my car is parked

Why have I been here? What have I left behind?

What is there which pulls me to nowhere?

Other than to be beside, and to look at the sea

I don’t go into the cafe

How much cake can one eat

Instead I climb into my welcoming limousine

The stereo plays my favourite music

This is more like the escape that I was made for

Prepare

A good night’s sleep

Meditation with a cup of tea

Listening to Temple of the Heart

Writing up my response to Haiku Minds

Vulnerability

I am, you are, we together

Separate, or apart, or close up close

Bath time

Listening to the Procul Harum playlist

Including Gary Moore, making one feel

Highly nostalgic; his blues songs are contagious

A new shirt for a new day

Foot cream, or heal balm in my case

Applied liberally, before

Putting on the colour-burst cotton socks

Then it is off to Norfolk Lavender

For a Full-English breakfast

Cooked to perfection, and served with a smile

In their still quiet restaurant

I will buy a memento from the gift shop

But just what, well that will have to wait

Until after the grilled and seasoned tomato

And the thick toast with lashings of butter

A good start to the day

Welcomed with appreciation

Listening to Start of the Week

Writing down my streamlined thoughts

Vulnerability

I am, we are, you are

Even with the lavender cushions