"The Haunting" (A Poem)

Since childhood, I have always been fond of spirits and haunted houses. When I stumbled upon Richard Jones’ Haunted Britain and Ireland (2002) over a decade ago, I was immediately drawn to his opening poem, "The Haunting." In four short stanzas, Jones captures, for me at least, many of the qualities I find alluring about those phantasmal abodes and their otherworldly inhabitants.

In screaming woods and empty rooms 

or gloomy vaults and sunken tombs 

where monks and nuns in dust decay 

and shadows dance at close of day. 

Where the bat dips on the wing 

and spectral choirs on breezes sing; 

Where swords of ancient battles clash 

and shimmering shades for freedom dash. 

Where silver webs of spiders weave 

and blighted lovers take their leave 

Where curses lay the spirits low 

and mortal footsteps fear to go. 

Where death holds life in grim embrace 

its lines etched on the sinners face 

Where e’er the march of time is flaunted 

voices cry – “this place is haunted.”