By Carolyn Pinet
Shorter, darker days
bleed into each other,
spill fall
where everything dies,
openly lovely,
a red-gold canopy cascading down,
and we, who trample it,
also transform, become
other than we thought,
strange, in disguise,
trailing to the cemetery with offerings,
our lanterns lit.
The "trick or treat" is done,
it's serious now.
We slip envelopes into the box,
penances begging for mercy, atonement,
pleading for the masquerading monsters
to vanish into thin air.
On my door lover skeletons clack
in the high wind,
their pumpkin heads wither.
Wars rampage elsewhere and
mourners lament unbearable losses.
We light our candles,
strain to remember needed words,
wafting on the current with the tide
where stars illuminate a sailing
pilgrimage under a silver coined moon.
When we reach the ocean,
will it rise with the dolphins to greet us?
Will the saints burst into song?
November burns bright in
the bonfire on Parliament Square
and Guy goes up in smoke.
Again we burn, hope to rise from
the ashes, blow over the bridge and
into the same tidal river, the one
that wrinkles and flows,
gaining strength as it races down
to the wavering, waxing ocean.
Ah, may time hold us, rapt and singing,
in a restorative, shining sea.
Halloween, All Souls, Day of the Dead, All Saints, Guy
Fawkes, Election Day, October-November 2023