The Hauntit Hoose

         ‘Thair’s a hauntit hoose  
         doon by,
         next tae the burn.’
         A’ve heard it said
         too mony times tae coont.
         An yit, a mannie bides thair,
         unfashed by ony spirits
         as he turns the soil.
         A hail him, ‘Here, sir!
         Huv ye goat ony ghosts
         livin wae ye?
         Breengin aboot
         while ye dae yer dishes
         or hing up yer washin?’
         He shrugs his shooders,
         smirk twinkillin.
          ‘Huv a keek at a map,
         wee man,  
         and then ye’ll see fur yersel.’
         Ma faither’s auld OS
         — pink cover, weel-worn –
         unfaulds erratically.
         But A find the spoat,
         wae the hoose
         next tae the burn.
         ‘Taigh an Spioraid’, it reads.
         A luik again.
         ‘Taigh an Spioraid’.
         Still, it says the same.

         Awrite, but that disnae mean onyhin!
         Or sae A tell masel, but then,
         A see it—
         richt next tae the hoose,
         runnin anent,
         impossible tae miss:
         ‘Bogle Burn’.

         Och!
         That seals it,
         dintit no?

         A’ve heard masel say it
         too mony times tae coont:
         ‘Thair’s a hauntit hoose
         doon by,
         next tae the burn.’

Ross Crawford