Monday, October 29, 2012
By Jean Bush
It was a shifting night of eyes and things;
Of smokey fires and spells to sing.
Where witches dance and fairies prance
And night takes flight upon its wings.
October wind, chilled too soon,
Blows beneath the misty moon.
Drifting clouds like ragged shrouds
Enhance the coming gloom.
Within the woods a cat-like tread;
A hung still moment of nameless dread.
A flash of light then blackest night,
And there stood they, the walking dead.
A crackling fire they quick surround
And dance a dance of leaps and bounds.
Black hair flying, voices crying,
The dancers from the graveyard mounds.
The moon casts forth a deathlike sheen
On these creatures from a madman’s dream.
But to childhood’s ghosts they drink a toast,
And celebrate this Halloween.