Raging in torrents of dark, heaving
squall,
Night summons witches to roost in the fog.
Black are the storm winds which howl through the gorge,
Angry the giants who toil at the forge.
Hide yourself, you who abandoned your senses;
Make for the hills and away with pretenses!
Hunting the valley in ravenous hunger,
Wolves from the forest race forward to plunder
Meat from the bones of the unlucky lad
Out of the house when he should be in bed.
Rising from grave-mist, the dead now awaken!
Trumpets bring panic: the cold earth is shaken!
Phantoms shriek shrilly at tardy daydreamers.
Lightning cavorts in tumultuous streamers.
Woe to the meek, to the weak, to the foolish
Caught at this site of nocturnal rites ghoulish!
Fright is the light to your path of salvation.
Fear is the wisdom for self-preservation.
Fly far away and do not look behind you.
Succubi seek with their glances to bind you!
Will o' wisp lights beguile, lure the unwary
Into the marshes where dark spirits tarry.
Ravens flit through the trees, dancing malefic.
Frogs in the brackish bogs bellow horrific.
All around, all around, madness prevailing,
Chorus of ghostly maids weeping and wailing.
Run away, far away! Foolhardy lad.
For this is the night of the wicked, the mad!
George Chadderdon © 1995