The House, to its Haunter
by Murray Ewing
Now alle is dead withinne me, and the attick dust is still,
And old moth huskes lye crumbling on the warped woode of the sill,
And spiderwebs snare emptynesse with esoterick skill,
I wait for you to come to me, and knowe that soone you will.
You knew me as I am now in the dreames you used to dreame,
When as a childe you laye awake too terrifyed to screame,
In night-sowne shadowes sensing, then, what I could only seeme,
Till you, in time, unite with me, beneathe my watching beames.
For you and I have changes, yet, that we must each fulfil:
Disuse, must I, through dismall yeares, fall into on my hill;
Whyle silence, you, and sadde despair, must steepe withinne until
You stumble, numbed to lyfe, to finde me waiting for you still.
What draws you back will not be fond or hopeful memoree,
But dark within you seeking dark to deeper darknesse be;
We'll make from our bleake union, then, this bitter poetree:
The nothing that you are completes my grimme nihility.
I have been promysed this and more by those I cannot nayme;
Their words have whispered nightly through the spaces of my frayme,
By unseene mouths impressed agaynst my sightless window paynes,
To quiver in the angles that the spiderwebs maintayne.
We will, together, welcome them, we will together see
The voide that stretches through them to a new infinitee
That you, through death, and I, through lyfe, will finally set free —
It is, denye it though you might, our certain destinee.
© Murray Ewing 2007