Cast thine deciding eyes, upon my Grand Design,
Though do not mouth an inferred word and keep,
Your fancy to thyself for this burden’s mine.
The autumn clime disturbs my prayer for sleep.
Nude, hunched trees groan in the spirited wind,
As a phantom’s breath, can shake you from the deep.
Apertures are sealed and the oxeye ringed,
The slate roof restored and the rain defied.
Now wintertime is here and sunlight dimmed.
Work stops for Christmas, and we fall behind,
And topping out before April seems bleak.
But a fortnight off brings the boys back inspired.
So drink in my stronghold, above antique
Insane to take it on, but now, how chic?