In the growing chill’s bite on this ominous night.
O’er the fast sleeping firelit land,
through the dark, moonless air reaching everywhere,
there’s a soul or some presence at hand.
Behold these dwindling days here harvest sun is seldom shone
over every span
but through our ancient ways with fires, feast, and worship known,
known to every clan.
A seer divinates with the gentry that waits
for the sign in the fires they’ll see.
Whether here or inside their hovels, they will bide
by their fear of things they do not see.
Such cold the harvest gets as frost is born of morning dew,
soothing calm is sparse.
Forecasts raise people’s frets. Priestly hands aiming wands of yew,
iInvocate and parse.
Does any great greystone triptych stature alone
shade the pyres or bask in its flames
as do the bearers of ceremonial flares
who pursue in their conjuring games?
A prayer sent out forthwith upon the calm, translucent air,
umbrage paid in fear.
Placate with humbling clout by blood or festive earth-grown ware.
Souls now drawing near.
Glowing long ‘til there’s no embers pulsating, so
the sight is a limited range.
Was there a sign of a spiritual kind
on this night of the solemn and strange?
Sun-starved, this tempered change so breaths are seen and wears enlarge.
Life begins a sleep.
The watch, a reign so strange. For now an end in now in charge.
You’ve sown. Now, you reap.