Lostluck Hall Poem by Phillip Ellis

There's something queer about this place,
I feel it seep into my bones.
I seem to smell a dampness reeking
of wet decay. Tell me I'm wrong.
Perhaps the damp is rising, maybe
downwards sinks the world. I don't know.
The must is getting stronger, see
if you can find its source at all,
or else dig forth through ancient years
of books and papers coldly mouldering
within the cupboard-musty rooms
within which ghosts amass to liquidly
murmur assents long faded, mere
whispers of sound, liquid ripples
of curious and rilling water.

Cobwebs and dust too sullen to move
brood, and I pass, a maligned ghost
of a man. Come, and pass away
from these dead halls, into the day
overcast, grey. The moors and meres
are grey, reflect no sunlight, sink
into sullen reveries, stink
of wet decay, and rotting leaves.