The House

The house stood lonely on the hill its shadows long in moonlights spill an eerie wind that makes bones chill, echoes of souls that scream out shrill. To tell the pain that they had borne when in this place their bodies torn, then broken left in hell to mourn and never see another dawn. In their chains and shackles bound down darkest dungeons they were found, their bones and rags upon the ground and here they stay, still hanging round. To meet and greet with lonesome moan those who dare their prison roam, with croaks from throat and creaks from bone from spending centuries on their own. I wish that I could free their plight, that I could change the wrongs to right to rest their souls and end their fight and make their peace, this very night. I hope that one, alas not me, can come and set their nightmare free, if that’s God's will, then it shall be, ...........but maybe not this century. Ivor G Davies