When Damien asked me if I’d like to contribute a ghostly poem or two to his Halloween podcast, I wasn’t up to writing anything new, especially nothing unsettling. Now that life is limping along again, the creepy, ghostly stuff seems easier to write. This one can be for the earthweal prompt.
Singing to the wind
I sing my songs in the winter wind, I sing them for the plucked and skinned; bless them Father, for they have sinned.
My sins are pale and holy songs that sweep away all rights, all wrongs and leave the rest where it belongs.
In dark of moon and dark of night, I sing the songs of holy light, and pluck the stars that died of fright.
Come, watch me pull the moon around, in her empty belly, no saviour’s found, this year will die without a sound.
I’ll stand and wait for moonrise, the rising of the light, the silvering of meadows, the darkening of night, to hear the owl song echoing among the spindle trees, to hear the owl song echoing, his soft voice in the breeze.
When veils of rain have fallen into the arms of night, I’ll stand and wait for moonrise, the growing of the light and listen for the owl’s song among the darkling trees, among the silver branches, stirred by a silver breeze.
And will you wait here with me while silver laps the hedge, a tide of misty moonlight is a sea where feathers fledge? Our fingers joined like heartbeats, the beating of pale wings plays in silver fluting moonlight such songs as the night bird sings.
An achievement worth celebrating, that giant step, the impossible dream realised. Yet closer to my heart is that first step on the trail of tears, the bamboo raft setting out across the world ocean of a flat earth, the hundred mile walk across a desert carrying a sick child, cattle trucks rattling to foul death, all journeys of a lifetime, a death, an inspiration.