Survives a legend,
Of a terrifying creature.
Known to locals as Ole Drom,
He was told as a warning to young children,
Who refused to go straight to bed.
The story goes,
That if one does not drift off,
As soon as head rests,
Then from the rattling willow branches,
Between the shadows,
Comes Ole Drom.
He waddles,
His webbed feet and rusty toenails,
Scratch as he moves.
He peers down,
His long chin rustling against the duvet,
His swirling eyes bulging.
His curled nose sniffs,
To check if the child sleeps,
And if he or she does,
Then he leaves immediately,
But if for some reason,
The child is still awake,
He breathes a heavy sigh,
Upon their face,
Covered in dust.
The sigh holds magic within it,
Which removes in a wink,
The eyes of the child,
No longer to peer or blink.
In place,
Just flesh,
Covering where sockets once sank.
Some say that it is just a story,
To frighten little ones to behave,
But others insist,
That if you lie awake,
And can hear the trees tap,
The floor scratch,
And the duvet rustle…
…then quickly shut your eyes,
And count the sheep in your head,
For Old Drom,
Makes his way to your bed.