The Old House Poem by David Harris

The candle flame flickers from a draft
on a dark and stormy night,
the floorboards creak with every step
as I move about the old house.

There is a chill in the air,
that seems to be everywhere,
and the clock’s tick sounds louder
as time passes hour to hour.

I hear the thunder rumble in the night
and see lightning illuminate the sky
and I stop and listen intently
to the yawns and groans that echo in my ears.

The old house’s settling graces
that are always heard in the quiet of the night.
My heart beats against my chest
as my imagination begins to fly.

I breath in the musty air within the room
where I am about to sleep.
Everywhere the shadows move
under the light of my flickering candle.

I know the old house is not haunted,
but my mind tells me other wise.
My imagination creates noises
where the dancing shadows fall.

I gaze about suspiciously
knowing that there is nothing there
as a branch outside taps my window
wanting to come in out of the storm.

The curtains move from a draft
as if something is sheltering behind them.
All of which make my mind
thinks of ghost stories I have been told.

In bed, I slip under the cover,
and then blow the candle out
as something gets on the bed
resting across my legs for the night.

My ears detect the slightest sound
in the blackness that surrounds me
and I am blind to everything
on this stormy moonless night.

The streaks of dawn break through the window
and the terrors of the night have fled.
I smile at my imagination
as I lay there with the cat upon the bed.

The old house is reputed to be haunted,
but take it from one who lives there
that the only ghosts are our imagination
and on dark and stormy nights it grows.

5 June 2010