Behind our eyes, are the stories we’ve never told.
We lay witness to the past but are silenced by an internal voice.
Our voice may be shielded by the longcase clock, whose presence resembles a time once forgotten.
But those rhythmic ticks only fulfill our heart-beat, of memories.
Yet we remember beneath your prying eyes we dance,
Tuned with the hypnotic power of the lute.
Our humble lives bode little pretence, to your judgment.
But our positions, are marked in the dust of time.
Through our tainted windows we hear,
Lively chatter, once held dear.
To flames of coloured dresses of courtly masques.
We stop, to cheer.
The patter of tick tock rains down, just like snow.
Each fleck catches at the glass,
Yet the family don’t turn to see,
For their Christmas cheer warms their sports.
Our tiny hearts are racing,
Through our house and up the stairs,
Be careful, we shout,
For those medieval ruminates of the past,
Have not escaped your notice,
Francis Knollys, designer of this manor,
Lives on through Greys Court.
Our first family settles down tonight,
As they shut their eyes, on fourteenth century life.
We close our doors too.
Another tour of our house, in its grand simplicity echoes through our hand-stitched home.
Time, has turned our homemade bodies old,
Time, is erasing our own stories.
Yet fragments of the past will never go unnoticed.
So if you leave to seek other toys,
You can always scratch beneath the surface, to find fragments of the past,
You just have to look beneath our painted layers, which are starting to crack.