Knole

The Sackvilles were mostly mad.

This book* blames a 'rogue gene' for

that 'slow reclusive despair'

which drove them out of their minds.

Knole was, according to Burke,

'a pleasant habitation ...

a grand repository':

oppressive clutter, more like.

But I remember the park

from winter afternoon runs:

setting off close to the gates,

rapidly losing the pack,

veering away to the right.

Distant scatter of antlers:

leafmould, twigs snapping, creatures

scuttling; not a soul in sight.

Along the wall of the house,

downhill back to the valley:

the runner's stumbling rhythm

leading to poems like this.