The old house

The old house

At the end of the lane,

Over the wooden stile

Before the bridge,

On this side

Of the river,

Always looked good

In the setting sun.

Layers of dust

Sparkle like gold,

Unless it really is.

The fall of Roses

Is upon us

Red petals litter the ground

The wooden floor

A welcome mat.

The door, wide open

As if we were lovers

Expected so

To enter

But children were then we

And every shadow

Was an illusion

An entrapment

So my mother said

An enticement.

The sunlight swirls in ghostly twirls

And the wind moves

In circles

Creating tiny twisters

Petals are the dancers.

The insects are at home

In dark corners

Big spiders

Have Betty Davis eyes

And I wonder

Where the old woman has gone.

She was always a mystery

With her potions

Ready to be used.

Sunlight made a halo

Around her white

Fly-away hair

There is so much to sparkle

In dry rot and rust

Enough to build a castle

From sunlight

And a pocketful of fairy dust