The Ghost House.
It stood on Burford Road, set a little back
Half-hidden by hedges but not off-the-beaten-track
It had a wooden five bar gate and a gravelled drive
and windows that stared at you as if it was alive
Its red-tiled roof had darkened and begun to slide;
people swore they saw strange shadows flit inside,
though the house was long since empty, left to rot and die
like the face seen at the window by some luckless passer-by
All the children relished the scary stories told
About the Haunted House that was ever dark and cold
Even the adults gave a shiver, pulled their collars close
As they passed it by, sitting brooding and morose
They miss it now it’s gone, taking its spirits with it too
The road is bland and boring, the houses dull and new
It had character, charisma, a charm-all of its own
With its wooden five-bar gate and its hedges overgrown.
S. P. Oldham.
I AM AN AUTHOR, BLOGGER AND A JOURNALIST.
“Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.”