HOUSE UPON THE HILL

I had a dream that very night.
Upon the porch I crept
And listened to the wind that curled
Around the eves and wept.

I don’t know who had lived there once.
I do not know the name.
It’s written somewhere on the wind;
It’s written on the rain.

Did a son fall on a foreign shore?
A wife die giving birth?
Or did the winds of time erase
The living from the earth?

Did they pause at night
And listen for the creak upon the stair?
Or sense that close at hand
The Beast was drawing near?

I saw a house the other day.
It stood upon a hill.
It looked just like a crumpled face.
I swear it’s crying still.

by David French