The house you've occupied since you were small,
In fact, has a ghost, after all.
He is not malicious, not wanting your death,
Yet still he cannot help freezing your breath.
He likes foggy mornings and the winter time,
When rains come and cleanse the house of grime.
The only way to spot him, if you're so brave,
Is to glimpse his tweed jacket above his grave.
His unmarked rest is in your very backyard,
There he is always, a dedicated guard.
If you go to the side yard, he might follow,
A curious sight, a jacket that's hollow.
His jacket is yellow with black plaid stripes,
A sort of jacket that belongs to eccentric types.
I reiterate, he's benign, just watchful you see,
Forever beneath that gaunt twiggy tree.
Alas, we cannot seem to find his story,
Perhaps he prefers his quiet glory.
So next time you're out back on a foggy morning,
You may heed this unusual warning.
If should you feel a presence unsettling,
A presence that sets your neck nettling...
Do not be alarmed, it's only nameless him,
He likes to appear, silently, on a whim.

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Author's Note: Written July 10th, 2025. Inspired by a dream I had on the night of June 27th-28th, 2025.


By Adaline Guerra