The sea is a sea of swirling mists
A strange, high house sits on its island, a rocky one
The Rocky Island in the Sea of Mists
hosts a cave, under the house.
This is a cave with walls of rock
Entered through a trapdoor
In the oaken floor of the strange high house
Which sits on its island, the rocky one.
At night, when the mists swirl slightly more,
And the house groans and creaks,
And the sea winds play around the dark gables of the high house.
The cave stays quiet, except for dripping sounds.
Drip, drip, drip,
And then a pause.
Drip, drip, drip, and drip
A hushed silence, then it drips again.
The house is dark, and wet, and cold,
For no-one lives there, only spectres.
The cave under the house is wet and cold
But not dark, for the fungi living there emit a greenish glow.
The fungi light shines not unheeded,
For there are mould-creatures,
Who walk about the many forking paths,
Who walk about so silently, and never speak a word.