A poem about haunting
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Photo by Adarsh Kummur on Unsplash
The living room shimmered and sprung in the night
The moonlight wallowed and willowed upon the Downy Birch tree
It seeped through a hollowed glass window
As darkness bathed upon the windowpane
Garden lights flooded bright.
Golden silky curtains closed
The room invisible from outside
Privacy ensued upon the orange soft chair
Where I sat and gazed at the green blarney stone’s glare.
A withered windy icy floating
Rummaged through my hair,
Rosary beads tumbled from my hand
Onto my grandmother’s land.
The night was young
The golden curtains swung
Someone infused within the silk
So fine and inline like spilled milk
It moved up and down
It hung on its length
Like a monkey out to play.
The leprechaun beamed in its lair
And hung sentimental in the air.
Off and on the lights went
Deep husked and rushed.
‘Who’s there?’ I asked.
A hushed tinker’s whisper pushed upon me
As the golden silk of the curtains flared
Walloping on the rail.
A sparkle of light flashed to the right.
In the darkness, it swept a whirl,
A shallow shadow exhaled a shrill
Like a cry from a banshee
Out in the dusky night.
It screeched into my ear.
A ghastly ghostly menace
Of the golden night’s haunting
Of the truant’s trickery
Come to fool me away
From the house that sits on a green hill
The Irish shell of Ireland’s thrill
Stolen by the golden night’s haunting.
©️ Denise Larkin 2021. All Rights Reserved.
This piece was about my grandparents' old country house in Ireland that we believed was haunted.
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