Baron

The Baron of Ashcombe Hall

In the hollow where the old stone walls keep the dawn’s first sigh,
the baron sat upon his plinth, a glass of port and a sigh for the oldkin.
He held the keys of acres green, his shoulders broad as the county’s ridge,
and the air around him breathed the soft humour of the high‑country herd.

His laughter echoed through the orchard, a merry tone that rang like bells,
and the fields beneath him bore the colour of autumn leaves, soft, unhurried.
He ruled his manor with a gentle hand—heritor and steward of the moor,
for a baron of the old peerage is a silent promise of shelter in storm.

Beyond the hedges, the hamlet whispers to the wind, their stories stitched
with the sound of the wash of streams, the glassy sheen of goats’ bells,
while the baron surveys his duty—a jolly guardian of quiet steadiness.

There is no courtly duel on the fields, no battlefield of steel,
apologies flown gently under the plum of new friendship,
and the baron’s title, like a gentle tide, carves out respect.

The house stands, timber‑warmed, ever watching
as the baron’s call calls back the night to the mash,
the old soil singing—a subtle ode to the glorious
balance between estate, sense, and truth.