Classical Poetry

 

(a quadruple triolet)

There’s a house up on the hill
No one lives there but the ghosts
The air’s oppressive, always still
There’s a house up on the hill
No person goes there, no one will
Though sometimes drunkards, they will boast
There’s a house up on the hill
No one lives there but the ghosts

The house is ancient, built long ago
Haunted since the bricks were laid
The ghosts they wander to and fro
The house is ancient, built long ago
Where spectres come from no one knows
Though many stories have been said
The house is ancient, built long ago
Haunted since the bricks were laid

We planned a trip up to the house
Our wish to set the stories straight
We moved as timidly as a mouse
We planned a trip up to the house
Our grumbling fears they finally doused
Our plans to hide there, lie in wait
We planned a trip up to the house
Our wish to set the stories straight

The ghosts thus had the final word
In what is story, what is known
It may seem quite a bit absurd
The ghosts thus had the final word
Our frantic wails the town had heard
That chilled them to their very bones
The ghosts thus had the final word
In what is story, what is known

(c) 2017 Miriam Ruff All Rights Reserved