PROSE POETRY

Michael Tom Dillon

And his big auld haunted house

Michael Tom Dillon with a healthy ruddy face Would stride past the family home Here in Drummond Bellanagare, in the west of Ireland.

Rising cane in hand with a big auld smile And a warm mornings welcome, lived in the big auld house up the road and Then a cut in some.

It was a spooky road come dusk, not a road you would walk alone, Something me Father would take delight in Warming us up with ghost stories prepared the night before.

Me Father, sister and I approached this auld stone Irish house Overgrown with weeds and ivy, its character adding to the setting Just right for our ghost story.

Michael Tom Dillon welcomes us with delight, Visitors to his home are not so many these days. It may be summer but the auld open fire is welcome In this big auld Irish home suitably ripe for our ghost stories!

Michael Tom Dillon offers us seating in old wooden chairs As off he goes to make us some tea, A cue for me Father to play with our young imagination.

He taps the wooden floor for an echo, a fiend look of Surprise as he shakes his head as though beneath us A secret well kept.

On Michael Tom Dillons return me father asks all the right questions Carefully planted in our curious gullible minds To add to the mystique of Ireland’s folklore, beloved the tales Of ghosts in auld houses ready to rattle our spines Underneath our tingling skin.

Uncontrollable Hairs standing up on the back of our undoubting necks Shivering in anticipation of the fright that never came. Almost to a vague disappointment not facing the fantastical unknown. At least a tale you could take away with you and say in earnest,

The tales of auld all told are true!

Thank you, Dr Mehmet Yildiz and the ILLUMINATION-Curated team for giving my words a platform 🙏 Thank you all for reading and your precious time as always. J. 🙏