Oh the arrogance of such aspiration!

Reforming rod straight Roman roads

and meddling with medieval hamlets.

Bridging wealth

across seven streams.

Perhaps Sir Walter pounded Wallington

into this noble and well-ordered estate

to match his stature

- ‘erect and stately’.[3]

Determining that it should rise

and grow gentility

into Palladian grandeur

- like it or not (… and many of us did not!)

Inheriting while still a green wet-footed man

we all kowtowed

- shifting our lives

around his wishes

Out of ear-shot

we called him Wally,

as he stood in bitter moorland winds

striking his staff

on damp sods.

But the bog sucked the stick down,

defying his desire

to control all he surveyed.

Sinking his teeth

- gritted with determination -

into the locale,

he filled ditches

and drained bogs

to ‘improve’ his vast estate

- whatever the cost.

Barely able to haul a log

his opinions of himself were strong enough

and full of bloat.

Just like his most tasteful plans for Wallington.

‘Origin is nothing’[4]

he declared -

from the vantage point of pounding wealth

served on a silver spoon

from birth.

While, a little off, most others bowed

low in pain and servitude

scraping through their scavenge days

for vittles

-and for joy.

But we still doffed our caps

and wiped dusty hands.

To give him his due

- which needy workers needs must do -

that from his bounty

he helped the poor

is true.

But whether from largesse, profit or guilt

we cannot know.

But that we twisted ourselves around his commands

watching him care for his workers

- specially the women!

So kind of him.

But

did he ask

if she, our sister, cared for

his attention?

Was it a leg up

- or just over

in a flash?

He would have her

but would he honour her

with a banqueted right hand

- even beneath the table?

Was she just to slip on social mores

for a moment

behind the curtain

as wine lubricated

conviviality

-and moral amnesia?

And while his guests moved to the drawing room

he displaced the memory

of his lost bairn

and his dear winsome wife.

We watch his eyes wander

smudging scents and sounds

A squealing

A roasting

A daughter herded away from home.

An(other) illegitimate child is born

without an Alleluia chorus

in something close to a stable.

We watch him sigh

for a moment.

And sip again

perhaps a memory glances off the gilded goblet.

But he soon turned again towards

another maid

he thought he’d save

… for dessert?

Again

to wallow in the powerless bosom

of unequal gals.

And so we ask again

Did Wally try to make amends …

… with monumental generosity

spread as wild as oats at times?

Don’t get me wrong

Noblis oblige!

Better kind than cruel

like some

But such worldly wealth could fund

so much

else

in the stead of his sweet play

with this sumptuous Palladian taste.