March of the Owls

It creeks as it moves
into boards
weary grooves.
Merely shallow,
at first.
Most believe
it's been cursed

Slowly comes
the tick,
tick,
tock.
In the corner sits
the lone grandfather clock.

It calls out to the night
and through the window
'Who' purs in.
Once,
out of mind.
Forever,
out of sight.