Life's winding paths at times
taking us on a circuitous route.
Yesterday I visited a haunt, a
Jacobean site, grand place
it used to be as Bramshill house.
Now unoccupied and with a
future quite obscured there are
perhaps a ghost or two enshrined
in memory and legends like the
Mistletoe Bough wherein a bride
had entered and was doomed to
die. No ghosts are heard to wail
although perhaps an treetop owl
might peer across the spooky site
and render haunting sentences as
dampness creeps inside the stones