The damp earthy smell when he spoke

The damp, earthy smell when he spoke

of the cellar. Behind the house, beneath

the lilac bush, where the damp always broke

through. A cold breath, a dusty wreath.

I was seven. We played hide-and-seek.

The heavy door, bolted shut from inside.

Stone walls, the faint, metallic creak

of rust. Where did the fear hide?

Only the light from a single, dusty bulb,

drooping from the ceiling, a spider's nest.

No sound but our own breathing, a small, sad throb.

Waiting for the storm to take its rest.

It's still there. Dark. And full of ghosts of damp and fear.