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Rated: E · Poetry · Ghost · #2255555
A poem of Hallowe'en in Scots brogue. You might not understand the brogue. Scots can't.
Across the kintra, girnin spunkies glow'd,
as mirkest light did lour.
The weans for bakes and hinny bode
and met with cowin' glow'rs.

An eldritch wind cut through the wooded howe;
October's bitter bite.
It whissl'd roon the hillock's brow,
then aff into the night.

Auld howlet sat upon a swirlie limb,
and keekit into night.
Her countenance was dark and grim
as she prepared for flight.

Aneath the trees on darkly shadow'd trails,
wee courin' beasties sheuk
at a' th' whirrins and th' wails
which reached their hidden neuk.

And now on wing, the howlet sought its prey,
which cour'd in th' dark.
Then somewhere not sae vera far away,
against th' fu' moon, stark,

a mottie, staukin shadow sidelins slade
its mooly breath, a fog
which seemed to permeate the eerie glade.
It fley'd a sullen frog.

The fremit cranks o' branches in th' night
did daunton my douse soul!
A sudden soun' behint brought siccan fright,
and shivers 'cross me stole!

What sleekit beastie, cankert fient, or ghaist
now keekit 'pon my back,
and made my haffin-hilchin' feet to haste
alang th' twisted track?

A hoodie flash'd across my darklins path,
as I went jinkin through!
It seemed auld Hornie'd loosed his wrath,
and he wad hae his due!

In quest o' prey, th' skreighin' howlet, too,
soare'd past my swayin' heid
and on into the crankous night it flew!
My heart was a' but deid!

A knaggy tree limb glaum'd my shoulder hard.
It coost me to the ground
into a dub with which the gate was scarred.
Again, an unco sound

did jee my droukit, limpin body on
before the bogle's chase!
I fear'd the bogle's eldritch, deadly brawn!
I fear'd the bogle's face!

I fear'd that morn should find me in my graff
as some negleckit corse!
My fearfu' thoughts had made me amaist daft!
I stacher'd on of course!

The cleeks beset me, yet I pelchin ran!
At last, a' strength was gane.
I fetch'd. Surrender was my cheerless plan.
I kend that I'd be slain!

The whisht were thick. A breeze were tittlin soft.
I stant awaiting death.
Aboon, I glimpsed auld howlet soar aloft.
I daur't to draw a breath.

I thought I caught a reeky brunstane whiff
from somewhere in th' wood.
I slowly turned as under warlock spell,
and there the bogle stood!!

Twa gilpeys stant where fu' th' moonlight shone
upon the tree-lined path.
Nae buirdly beas' nor even carline crone
stood there in heated wrath!

Aye, just the twain! Th' lassies, wee an' hale,
did gie a puzzl'd look.
Then ane spak forth, "Ye amaist stepped on Gale."
And, "I'm her sister Brooke."

Before the bairns, a bluntie bizzard-gled
had fain the bogle face'd!
Into the stack o' night I wad hae fled!
Och! I was sae disgraced!

Across the kintra, girnin spunkies dim'd
as we return'd to town.
The weans' big bags were treat-filled to the brims,
but I still wore a frown!

October 1, 2013

My wife, Bren, loves all sorts of ghost stories and tales of hauntings. So, I wrote this poem for her.
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