Glum, doleful moon, alone,
our only witness to such dreadful tragedy,
spies on deadly Scorpius,
chaperone to the winter’s chilling breath,
who, dragging slain Orion’s bloody cloak,
sweeps the crackling bronze crisped leaves,
like autumn’s janitor,
on this night all souls are blessed.
This bloody month, this killing time,
mischievous night, a fragile armistice
befalls us with our good clean ale
and hopper cakes,
astride our blinkered hobby horse
tonight, all are hallowed.
© Graham Sherwood
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