Dead monarchs buried under car parks? Pshaw! This is the all-conquering Black Death, baby ...
'Yet
still the wind it blows, and it blows wisht.
It’s
an unket wind that rolls and bowls
along
the lonely drovers’ trails
in
sunlight and in starlight
when
ghostly owls make moan.
And
with it comes a frittening
like
naught you’ve ever known.
Forget
your bullbeggars, dragons and bogies,
Jack
o’ Lanterns that dance over mires
those
drear, drowned souls rising up from their depths
with
slimy hands that beckon and clutch …
Forget
the whispering spirits of All-Hallow-E’en,
your
pixies and ogres and hags
Old
Nick and his hell hounds that howl in the blackness
their
eyes all a-flame …
They’ve
long since been sung of in stories
and
vanquished by name.
For
now absence begets a presence
older
than words, colder than ice at the heart of the fire.
A
darksome sending – nameless, formless dread –
a
shapeshifter that drifts and slides
beside
its helpless prey
a
displacement of air, a quickening, thickening
clotting
and curdling into a shade
that
isn’t fog or a cloud for it’s real, it’s alive
though
it reeks of death and decay.
And
soon you’ll reacquaint yourself
with
one you’ve glimpsed before –
Bloodless
and Boneless behind the door
but
now it’s breathing through your keyhole
forcing
fingers through
the
cracks and chinks and squints.
And
though it utters not a sound
you
understand what’s brought it here
and
its intention as it reaches through
is
boulder-cold and clear -
It’s come for you ... '
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