That House In Brackenfell Poem by Gert Strydom

That house in Brackenfell
had new furniture,
a wine red Kameel lounge suite,
a solid wood dining room table,
a big queen size bed with drawers,
a brand new washing machine,
a white Kelvinator stove and refrigerator.

I worked on an old display case there
stripping varnish, rubbing it
with sandpaper and gluing
it together again
into which your mother
put some mirrors at the back
and we gave it to her.

I planted flowers and shrubs
in that small garden
and watered them
and we lived there
in our first dwelling
for just a few months
driving to work
at Tygerberg hospital and back.

Your folks went away on holiday
and we had to look after
the Pomeranian
and you twisted
that orange-brown Wollie’s member
when he lifted his leg
against the lounge suite
and the poor thing
had to go to the vet
to get over its shock.

Everything went really swell
till one night
that you used the bath
and were naked in it
with all the taps closed
when the walls
started to knock
with a sturdy sound
expected on the front door.

At first you didn’t understand
what was happening
but when you realized
you gave a great scream,
and went to the bedroom
to dress.

Later I found out
that students had played
glass-glass with an ouija board
in that house
and had invited some spirits in.

When the lights
started to go on and off
and doors opened and closed
on their own
you had it with the witchery
and with that house
and moved to your parents
huge villa a little way off.

I at first stayed and prayed
and opened the bible
and told the spirits to be gone
and so they did
but you didn’t believe it
and never set your foot
in that place again.