By Carolyn Pinet
Shorter, darker days
blend into each other,
spill fall
where everything dies,
openly lovely.
A red-gold canopy cascades down
and we, who trample it,
also transform, become
other than we thought,
strange, indisguise,
trailing to the cemetary 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.
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.
We burn, hope to rise from the ashes,
blow over the bridge and into the same tidal river,
the one that wrinkles and flows
into the waxing, wavering ocean.
Ah, may time hold us rapt and singing
in a restorative, shining sea!