Approaching All Hallows Eve

Approaching All Hallows Eve


Strolling westward slowly into the dark
labyrinth of the year,
only my dog and I and the stars
are out to walk tonight.
September's choir of crickets has lapsed -
just one voice still speaks, lonely and bleak
from the shriveled grass
as we go by.

The half moon dangles in the holy,
wholly blue-black sky;
lamplight from warm windows spills
like frosty breath;
the rumbling of a passing train
echoes off the distant, stripped-down hills.

Soon enough we will arrive
at autumn's hallowed center:
already we have put aside our
wistfulness at summer's end.
Now what matters is that we stride
with open senses into the lengthening night:
that we permit the year's Hag time to touch us
with searching, dry, unsparing fingers,
laying Her wise bones against our hearts.

We brave the cold to watch Her spin
a web of stars across the naked dark;
we listen to the rustle of withered hopes and passions
as they stir inside of hearts long silent,
but close beside us here.
The veil between the worlds is silk;
the keen and pungent Northern air
stings us with restlessness and draws our tears.
Dry leaves scuttle across the street:
whispers of the journeys
which we have made before.
And walking home beneath the stars,
we go accompanied by those who travel still.




Sarah Unsworth MacMillan
1985/2009