THE CELEBRATION

By Jean Bush

It was shifting night of eyes and things;

Of smoky fires and spells to sing.

Where witches dance and fairies prance

And night takes flight upon its wings.

 

October wind, chilled too soon,

Blows beneath the misty moon.

Drifting clouds like ragged shrouds

Enhance the coming gloom.

 

Within the woods a cat-like tread;

A hung-still moment of nameless dread.

A flash of light then blackest night,

And there stood they, the walking dead.

 

A crackling fire they quick surround

And dance a dance of leaps and bounds.

Black hair flying, voices crying,

The dancers from the graveyard mounds.

 

The moon casts forth a deathlike sheen

On these creatures from a madman’s dream.

But to childhood’s ghosts they drink a toast,

And celebrate this Halloween.