The air grows cooler and the time draws nigh,
For ghouls to shamble and ghosts to fly.
All Hallows E'en is it's haunted name,
A night long shrouded in monstrous fame.
Here there be no mere "witching hour",
As all night long the living must cower;
Whilst monstrous shadows flit and lurk,
In darkened streets and abandoned kirk.
Children don masks and costumes scary,
Dress as vampires or spritely fairy.
Pumpkins are carved, and parties are held,
Smiling with features covered or veiled.
Rituals concealing an ancient pagan rite,
Samhain by name, borne of fire and night.
A night when the portal twixt living and dead,
Is gossamer thin, and spirits are fed.
Livestock were slaughtered, and food set aside
For those no longer living, who yet still abide.
Monstrous disguises were worn as protection that night,
To fool wandering spirits and ease shuddering fright.
Countless years have passed since those Gaelic rites,
Yet I wonder, do spirits yet wander on that "hallowed" night?
If so, surely their hunger and thirst have grown monstrous indeed,
As they impatiently wait on something to feed.
Perhaps that ancient culture had good reason to dread
The night when the veil is thinnest twixt living and dead.
