The House On The Hill Poem by Cat Hodgson

The House on the Hill

Trees that sway reflect from the broken glass window. A flash from the approaching electrical storm is the only light seen from its pane. The torn curtain looks like a human disfigured and old, watching for an uninvited guest.

The old black Iron Gate makes a nervous moan. It sways with the wind squeaking back and forward. In the distance a wolf cry's as the moon is covered by a dark cloud. The grandness of the old house is seen from afar, Abandoned Empty from the wane of wealth, inside the only residents crawl around the rooms, Sneaking from the cracked corners to fly in the night, seeking out food for yet another generation of their own.

Soon the weathered wood will rot like fall leaving, A mere pile of refuge Far too gone to reconstruct. Like a depression of worthless sense

The stories of children tales Ring to its glory, of phantoms and ghouls And other most mystical of creatures

But is it just an old house, It's owner gone on, left unattended to its own.. Waiting.. Waiting.. Waiting..

Cat Hodgson © 2009