The Dark Hound

It swam with the gentle breeze.
Just like the undulating pendulum,
of a grandfather's clock.
But without the monotonous tick-tock.
The dark head swung back and forth now.
Against the rays of silver moonlight.
Bottomless and faceless.
Square and noiseless. 

She had woken up in the middle of night,
As if struck hard by some silent foe, 
Terrified, and sweaty at the brow.
She stared, as if hypnotized,
At the queer contraption.
'Is it a ghost?
Is it a robber?'
She wondered in consternation.

'Mom', she tried to call.
The parched throat refused to oblige.
'Brother', she tried to nudge.
Paralyzed arms declined to budge.
'Would it pounce upon me',
she panicked, 'and attack my loving kin,
snoring softly,
Oblivious to the fangs of death closing in?'

The seven-year old shut her eyes tight,
Wishing the monster to go away,
Disappear into the piercing moonlight,
Longing for it soon to be day.
'Ghosts are not real, it's just a dream
Soon the nightmare will be over'.
She pulled over her face, the sheet cover.
'It's not so scary now, as it seemed'.

Sunlight filtered through the pristine sheet,
Peeped through her shut eyes.
'Wake up, you sleeping beauty',
Mom kissed the little princess.
She sat up with a jolt and looked around.
'Has he vanished? It's not yet Vesper's nine!'
Her brother's black tee flailed on the clothesline.
Oh no, so this was my ghost, this was the dark hound!

Image courtesy: wikiHow