The house creakes away at the top of the hill, some say.
Oak floors groan under the wind's breath,
Lamplight flushes across the landing.
Silver-white toes brush the rug in the moonlight
and silk skirts softly rustle on flagstones.
Or was it a castle? Old as ivy,
with beaten black stone, mahogany vaulting
sleepless armour and the façade of power.
Perhaps it was a shack in the forest,
higgledy piggledy, animal skins,
black wood smoke and a *** brewing on the stove.
Our tales are told in shadow, the cover of night,
We lust after stories in perfect candlelight.