Sonnet 561

All Hallow’s Eve the mist of death descends
And spirits walk as if of mortal form,
By ghoulish shapes their presence so portends
That every soul is not of Heaven born.
There stones engraved are lit by pagan lights,
That torch of ages raised ‘fore Christ arrived—/
To show that hope shall ever best the blight,
And quietus may ne’er sweet life deride.
So of that hope did heathens build a cross
‘Mong other icons to assuage their fears
That relic bones in sand be earthly dross;
Where yet some essence braves the vale of tears.
A darkened eve that outre vision paints
In doubts that linger on the day of saints.

© Loubert S. Suddaby. All Rights Reserved

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