That afternoon we arrived late—too late
for admittance—but failed to heed
the Head Gardener’s suggestion we return
some other time. Instead, we walked
around the front lawn, admiring the great
Baroque pile of the house and the view
of its private wood, lake and immense tract
of surrounding countryside—no other
house in sight—while the kids fed a pony
they found in a small enclosure down
by the lake. We walked to the back of the house,
where we admired the formal garden,
with its fountain sculpture of Atlas, holding
the world up, all by himself, another
immense, empty tract of surrounding country
and the slope, awash with daffodils, leading
to the Temple of the Four Winds, while the kids
chased peacocks between hedgerows.
The sun set and the evening air was freezing,
so we turned to go, but not before we saw
one tired peacock make its heavy-tailed way
up the steps to the great French windows
of the Garden Hall to stand in lonely splendour—
that perfect image of the aristocracy—
lost in contemplation of its reflection in the glass.
Poem
At Castle Howard
Stephen Smithyman