The unfamiliar ticking of a clock,
that half wakes me as it chimes the hour
and stirs the stairs to creak
and climb themselves.
There are no ghosts in grandma's house,
but still I hide beneath the comfort smell
of freshly laundered terry cotton sheets
and wish for morning.
Sash windows rattle in their casements,
as the breath of night revives the trees
that wash and whisper tales of waves
far from the sea.
Thoughts of water fill my bladder,
but it is a long way to the outside lav
and I fear what may nest in dusty springs
beneath the bed.
My fingers trace the corrugations
of candlewick, as I grope across the covers
in search of Fifi, my faithful dog
and favourite toy.
His fur is all but worn away
by too much love from one small boy,
but the smoothness of his pelt is soothing
and soon I am asleep.
Even now, when I dream of returning,
it is my grandma's house that is my home,
though the clock has ceased its ticking
and I am alone.
When I attempt to visit grandma,
strange things happen on the journey
and cast a sinister pall
around her door.
Last time I crossed the threshold,
there was stagnant water on the floor
and I splashed through a miasma
to reach her room.
The door refused to open,
though I could clearly hear her breathing
above the sound of floorboards creaking
on the stairs.
The doorknob had the glassy finish
of Fifi's sightless eyes, that came unstitched
and sealed his doom at last,
beyond all mending.
When I wake, I am not crying,
for the little boy has grown to realise;
there are no ghosts in grandma's house,
except for me.
