The House upon a Hill
There is a house of gentle ruin
It stands upon a hill
Through broken panes its eyes look out;
I like to go there still.
It's quiet yet, not suffering
Some doors are open wide
The rusty hinges, broken locks
Let sun spill light inside.
Shades of gray keep wandering
Beyond the wooden halls,
and specters sleep on ironed sheets
Behind the bedroom walls.
The house, it breathes in autumn dusk
And turns on ghostly lights,
And when I do stay late enough
There's laughter in the night.
(c) 2013 Jan Darrow
From: Autumn Poetry: A Collection for the Season
Available on Amazon
photo: pixabay
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