The Secret Lives of Chimney Pots Vi

Strategically placed when raised Upwards By your masterful and well Practiced hand. To mingle with ever changing Skylines That frown down with arrogant Scowls Upon the indigenous populous of This just and tolerant island. To study and pontificate upon Predictable behaviour, When so lamentably remarking, Then to inwardly digest; Our conclusions borne through your Repeated failure , Compelled by fortunes tempting Behests, When you attempt the restraints That will Contain - Throughout all the moral frames of Moralities most demanding tests! Now all walls have ears... Or so "They" say; And the open grates are set to Eavesdrop In every opportunistic way. Our breast is the diaphragm that Sits upon the jambs, Protruding from the hearth, Over which the burden sustained by The load-bearing lintel reliably Spans. Constructed as the focal point, Drawing invitingly into the cozy Room, We are regarded as the epitome Of discretion... Or so we have successfully Endeavoured - Ensuring that you most foolishly Presume! Whether the Prime ministers Cabinet room, Or the Spy-Master Generals office Secreted somewhere, unannounced, Obscured securely away, We readily glean all the highly Sensitive information that you Absentmindedly and innocently Parley. Be it in chambers or conference, Just chatting to colleague or chum... We are the treacherously embracing Confidant To which the mighty and powerful, In time - Shall all finally succumb! For we once exhaled into the Surround Of an unsullied and more wholesome Air... Enriched with sweetest chimes from Chapels both rustic and fair; Before the advent of a modern age - Swept all before in a frenzied rape Of self-consuming rage! Stirred by memories of years gone By Of the clanking school bell - Now hanging silent and unrung Across valley and dell; Dreaming of the lost meadows... Where in solitude one could pause To hark - Trilling, crystal clear songs of The soaring, high above lark. From Hadraw in the gritty Dales of North Yorkshire... To wooded Shropshires Angel Bank And Glazeley. From seafaring Bristols Blaise Hamlet... To the chocolate box village of Polperro - Astern of a Cornish, topaz-blue Sea. Jolly the red embers that comfort Our fireplace That escorts the curling smoke to The slate... And jolly the sound of the Chinking cutlery As it is lain besides the warmed Dinner plate! In deference to the wisdom of Medieval predecessors We politely applaud: When conversing in indefinable languages Demonstrating unwavering concord. Snuggling comfortably between yelms Of Wheat reed, Longstraw and Reed stalk Attached by twisted Hazel spars To seasoned rafters Supported by Cruck beams Containing the whitewash of wattles And Daub. Blooming red rose climbing a trellis Beneath a covering of overlaid Thatch; Happy the sedentary and elderly Couple Daily lifting upon the old blackened Latch. Aged ancestors of a monastic and Supercilious disposition - Lordly keepers of an imperious And superior tradition; Shunning the encroachment of a Modern civilization... Whilst loftily towering in magisterial And overweening disinclination. Isolated in a Turner landscape, Conceived by "Capabilities" gifted Hands, They look out onto perfect portrayals Of ideal husbandries well apportioned Plans. The lingering custodians firmly staid In Tudor and regency constrain... Whilst pining for established Etiquette and goodlie manners Imposed through hierarchical ordain. TO BE (UNFORTUNATELY FOR MOST I SUSPECT) CONTINUED. :)