The Old Hall
It was more Wuthering Heights than gingerbread house.
And the old woman living there alone
was no more a witch
than the raindrops
hanging
from the trees
were really diamonds.
We knew that.
Even though
she said that they were.
And she gave us drinks candy bars.
Surely no witch would be so kind
to children who were trespassers
and teenagers looking to party.
We didn’t see the ghosts,
not then.
But later
we watched them dig up the garden
and under the drifts of snow
we smelled the flesh
and saw the bones
of past trespassers and party-goers.
And afterwards,
nature reclaimed it’s space
so the hall stands empty
and no one else remembers
an old woman
still
only
the raindrops remain
frozen in winter,
frozen in time
hard
as diamonds
soft
as tears.
Still
we don’t know
why.
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