The Little White House

I remember back in school I wrote an essay that didn’t go down to well with my English Teacher, saying that my imagination was a bit vivid and I should stop watching to many movies.

This poem is kind of a tribute to that moment with a bit of imagination thrown in for good measure. Hope you like.

The Little White House

What a beautiful summer’s day

The sky a turquoise blue

Not a fluffy white cloud could be seen

And a warm pleasant breeze gently blew

The meadow below was a wash

With emerald grass and wild flowers

Swaying to and fro

While butterflies sunbathed for hours

And there in the meadow there sat

A little white house, picket fence

And a very old, twisted tree

That gave a feeling of suspense

If you walk to close to this beacon of white

With sun shining you might feel the cold

Goose bumps will rise the closer you get

In full sight of this tree of old

A funny little house I hear you say

I’ll tell you more as you walk this way

From afar it’s seems no more than a Little White House

Shining bright in the summer sun

But that old twisted tree

An ominous silhouette against the clear blue sky

Its large twisted trunk and spiny branches

Out of places in such a pretty picture


Out of place you might think, standing guard I say

A warning to those who approach this way

The protector for that which stands

Innocent Little White House

Surrounded by its parapets of pointed picket


What’s that smell?

Damp, musty decay; seems out of place

It’s your imagination you tell yourself

As you get closer through this sea of flowers

That also droop; discolour, as if shying away

From a hiding terror


Suddenly the air around you is in pain

As the cackle cracks and splits

Penetrating you deep within

Shaking every muscle, tendon and bone

Your heart beats faster than you recognise

You want to run but fears magnet holds you down

But you better run back through that meadow of green

Cos if it sees you; you’ll never be seen…

Ever again!

Copyright © JRFC Nov 2015

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