The old cottage.

The old cottage.

The radiators click,

And the house

Begins to whisper

Ghost stories

That curdle the blood

As the temperature

Drops through the floor.

There is a pitter-patter,

As bitter cold rain

Runs like a plaque

Of blind mice

Down the window pain,

And each creak

Of the old floorboards

Is a jagged stab in the dark

As the old place

Stubbornly rebuts

The modern world

And settles in for the night.

Even the wind

Is a restless howl,

The cry of a banshee,

A headless horseman

Coming to claim his due,

But not from me,

As I can name him.

And his idiosyncrasy

Does not expand

Or contract

The security of my

Hold on objective

Reality.

Honestly.