If the manor had not been there, so pretty in the rising land, my artistic self would have conjured it for my dreamscape imagination.
To the mountains in their timeless grace the manor house was but a spring flower in momentary bloom.
At the dawntide the manor roof was alive with the compendium of the birds, for in their song was their rich emotional intelligence told to anyone capable of real listening.
The manor had a way of belonging to the earth it graced. Of greys and browns were its walls of, the kind of stone that reflects sunlight into the ambient soul.
From the great windows of the manor the sky was ever-blue, for the schools of clouds that came were ever the fish rather than the water.
The manor had long loved the land, for its stone carried the memory of its creation long ago. Thus between the big house and the trees that danced in the wind there was a sense of belonging.
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