Kathryn: A Narrative Poem

		Readers, I call you to attend
		A doleful tale from Michigan.
		Two pasts collide as present tells
		True yarn of Kathryn and my dad.

		In Joe McCarthy's age, Dad drove
		A used Dodge Dart, a Hatchback small.
		Halted by student block, he planned
		To motor tests out of his mind.

		In countryside of Lansing East,
		Dad spied an ante-bellum home.
		Three floors, a widow's walk on top.
		Plus, stables and some barns nearby.

		That night's most striking feature, though,
		Under a yellow moon in black-
		A sound he barely heard, he thought.
		Small noise of sand as someone digs.

		Investigate. No soul is there.
		Query shovel? No hands to see.
		Shiver as fear of puzzles comes.
		The sand's locale- behind old graves.

		Night One: Dad did fast quit that place,
		But curious, he did return.
		Night Two: A tour of house and grounds
		Given by gentle unseen guide.

		When done, they end upon a grave
		With little chapel white hard by.
		Chapel and stone both "Kathryn" read,
		And dates showed how at eight she died.

                Dad found atop the grave small soap.
		Indeed, oval of lilac scent
		Fragile enough to wash away.
		Homemade in empty shadow home.

		Intrigued, again he did return.
		Night Three: The Hound From Hell did show,
		Or Mastiff should I say he was.
		Glower and glow in red tail lights.

		Diminutive Dodge Dart no match,
		And dog could see in window back.
		Corporeal did Fido seem,
		But laws of Physics did he break.

		The dog appeared too soon in view.
		Take he the space my dad just drove
		Before Dad even braked the car.
		Oh God- a ghost! Dad had enough.

		The Dodge darted, and then, it flew.
		"No masochist am I," said Dad.
		Himself to him he did relate.
		"I'll not set foot down there again!"

		Later conjecture answered full.
		With archived facts covered in dust,
		My dad together put the tale
		Kathryn's spirit gave him to tell.

		J. H. Forster had built the house
		Before the War Between The States.
		He called it home with wife and maid,
		When they from native England moved.

		The had all but a child with them,
		As Madam Forster barren was.
		But, baby girl was born to wife
		By way of hubby and the maid.

                "Here dear, do raise her as your own.
		My darling Kathryn raised in love."
		Jealous, his wife, though, would have none.
		Silent she for propriety.

		Eight years did pass with trials none.
		Kathryn- she grew a dimpled cheek.
		Her pa, a mining engineer,
		Was called away by work one day.

		His journey, to and fro, was long,
		And Madam F. had time to stew.
		She sat alone with Mastiff guards.
		They gifts from him, as was the girl.

		J. H. Forster returned and found
		"Murder, most foul," as foul it was.
		Madam on Kathryn sicked the dogs,
		And he sickened with wife did leave.

		The maid, true parent, who had stayed.
		Grief-struck at the loss of her babe,
		Did hang herself. Did die in pain.
		The widow's walk the scene she chose.

		Before he left, Forster did plan
		And build a chapel white for her-
		His little girl. His heart's delight.
		Came Dad to view this monument.

		The chapel stood on through the years
		Used for sermons Episcopal.
		The house, however, was destroyed.
		No one would buy, too scared to stay.

		So ends this doleful tale of Dad's
		From Michigan, as told through me.
		I hope that in the telling, thus,
		A little soul may rest in peace.