All Hallow’s Eve, the mist of death descends
And spirits walk as though in mortal form,
By ghoulish shapes their presence so portends
That every soul is not of Heaven born—
Grave stones rough-hewn are lit by pagan lights,
That torch of ages raised ‘ere Christ was born,
To show how hope shall always thwart sin’s blight,
And life may ever laugh at death’s dark scorn.
There from that dream, believers built a cross
‘Mong other icons to assuage their fears,
That relic bones be not mere earthly dross;
Where yet some essence braves the vale of tears.
That darkened eve this arcane vision paints
Black doubts that linger on the Day of Saints.
© Loubert S. Suddaby. All Rights Reserved
Loubert S Suddaby poems 