The Haunted House

Amid the glacial hills of central Maine There stood forsaken, gray, an ancient farm, Which always filled us with a vague alarm. Atop the humpback ridge of a moraine, Abandoned now, for centuries it stood, Defying time, and ice, and hurricanes. Its windows now were yellowed, cloudy panes, Its weathered clapboards, bleached unpainted wood. We’d see its silhouette against the dusk: Its gambrel roof was reared against the skies With dormers like two staring, evil eyes— Unyielding in their aspect, heartless, brusque, Perhaps a touch of malice in their glare. And though untenanted for many years, It never failed to stimulate our fears, Because the house seemed gleefully aware. But was it haunted? So we all assumed. Yet still each May we’d watch as swifts would nest And use the eaves and dormers for their rest; And in its dooryard fragrant lilacs bloomed. February 16, 2019 Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest Emile Pinet, Sponsor