The bogle is something which has fascinated me my entire life. A ghost or elemental being from Scottish folklore, it has featured in many of the stories I read growing up. And so, this poem is my own take on the ominous entity. Originally written on the 17th June 2016.
Moss-clad byways, ancient haunts of man,
The bogle stalks ancestral lands.
That’s what it does, as it always has,
Hunting the lost, with outstretched hands.
Country roads, isolated and forlorn,
A dying forest, through moonlight torn.
Dwelling in fractures, wandering alone,
Gathering strength with the coming gloam.
Waiting is nothing, nor is there end,
To the haunting of that which never transcends.
It never lived nor died, it is something else,
As old as man and as real as self.
Up and down those forgotten lanes,
The hedgerows, forests and quiet plains.
Over hills and shores and restless borders,
Meandering without end the desolate corners.
Transcending legend, traversing yore,
The silent concierge of death’s grim door.
A silent stalking phantom, seldom seen,
Yet sometimes felt in light’s dying gleam.
Sullen hearts of ice, lonely and afraid,
Out of the gloom emerges the shade.
Glacial fingers delivering death’s touch,
Casting victims into the clutch.
And in the distance, an old kirk bell chimes,
And the bogle resumes its wandering,
The avenues of time.