I'm haunted by the house on Quinte Isle
And embedded in my memory is its stare.
Reflective of occult and witches' guile,
It presents to every passerby a dare.

Its gables seem to twist into a scowl,
Warning that intruders have no chance.
Chilling winds whip 'round it with a howl,
As if to threaten any who'd advance.

Its foreboding aura makes the pulse rate rise,
As it wraps itself in shadows like a cape.
Clouds turn menacing before one's very eyes,
As if to thwart a possible escape.

That somber, eerie structure haunts me still
And in distant recollection ever will.

poem by my friend E.G.Pizzella
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