The Knock
It’s Halloween, the fires are doused,
and all the hounds of hell unhoused
are prowling round your cabin door
as shadows flit across a floor
lit by a crimson light that wanes,
and filters through the rain-flecked panes.
The door is knocked, the latch is lifting
the clouds that once were slowly drifting
are billowing, darkening, deep and frightening
thunder roars and a flash of lightening;
a face lit up in the looking-glass.
A face ordained to come to pass.
Cheekbones, gaunt in high relief,
familiar, though the glimpse is brief,
and two hands joined in unholy praise
upon a head that's Astarte's,
all stay in your mind and the vision lingers.
You pray on the beads with bloodless fingers.
“Oh Mother Mary and your Son!”
you pray until time and tide are one.
And wait in fear of another knock
but time has stopped, you kneel and rock,
oh slowly. Your fate is clear.
You are one who will knock next year.
[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited November 02, 2006).]
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