BRENTON BOOTH

THE WITCHING HOUR

Everyone was always nervous visiting
Sean’s decrepit weatherboard house
at the far end of the street. He had the
longest blonde hair, most worn extreme
heavy metal shirts, playing every song
on the cheapest electric guitar better
than any of us ever would. Problem
with Sean was his long passed
mentally ill grandmother. Legend
had it her sad vengeful ghost effortlessly
broke on through the tired walls of
that decrepit house from the other side
each night at precisely witching hour.
Sparing none but her immediate family.
We were all afraid. Painstakingly
going out of our way to keep clear of
Sean’s spine-chilling house any time
after dark. Tim once watched the open
spectral windows of that evil abode
nervously hidden behind the meagre
brush across the street eager to view
firsthand if the legend were true.
Sprinting all the way home at the touch
of midnight whiter than the blinding
glow of the full smirking moon.
Recounting the entire ridiculous story
to us immediately after inside Craig’s
parents cosy garage. Stomachs drowned
in happier spirits. Cheerfully listening
to Jim Morrison bellowing: “STRANGE
DAYS HAVE FOUND US!”

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. His poetry has appeared in New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Gargoyle, Chiron Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Main Street Rag.