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Rated: E · Poetry · Family · #2248600
way down east in the land of the dead...
In downeast Maine
In the town of Harrington
Is a tiny fishing shack,
Landbound and far
From the bay
With a cemetery in the front yard,
but with no markers and no memories
because the town hall burned down
A hundred years ago
And no records
And no names remain.

Sometimes a white light
Shines from that old shack,
And no one knows why.
They say the house is haunted
And the spirits don't like
Rainy weather and want
to brighten the days a bit.
“It doesn't matter,” the residents say,
“as long as they are not mean to me.”

The ghosts play with children
Who read them tales
Of Suess and Tolken on quiet evenings,
When the rain taps on the old
Tin roof.
The fisherman used headstones for anchors
And weights for lobster traps,
Leaving just white light.
There is a cemetery in the front yard
With no markers except a sign
To the old town hall
That burned down a hundred years ago.
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