Over in the deepest corner at Avoncroft, there is a medieval marvel.
Precursor to our grid-iron skyscrapers.
Penetrated by pegged timbers and held together by tension.
Fallen on hard times, saved, moved and here now in its final resting place.
Some say a sterile act - to move and reconstruct - better to leave and decay.
But such notions dissipate upon entry into draughty voids beyond the whiplashed door.
Inside the minutes slip by as the light reveals and conceals the lives of our forebears
Their loves, fears and needs reflected in the way they built and organised.
With decanted light
through the ancient timbers along the wattle and daub -
The house resonates….
And suddenly, because of such things
the people that once inhabited are alive again
and there’s a different century coursing through my veins…