Day of the Dead

Samhain celebrations in Glastonbury High Street, on a wild and wet wintery day - and a poem I wrote today -

The wind can not be seen
But it’s deafening today
Screaming where caught by twisted iron sheet
Ripping through the trees
Stripping the leaves
A wild combing
Thinning out and baring
Howling up the valley like an express train
Screeching on corners
Wailing like an angry lost thing
A banshee
Bemoaning the end
The soon to be dead
The craw of a crow snatched like the moment an umbrella blows inside out
Flapping wildly in the squall
Scraps of birds in funeral black
And the flame red leaves shower down to scatter and lift again in swirls
Like the dresses of wildly dancing girls
Halloween and Samhain
The time of year again
To remember the dead
But no quiet of graveyard this
No whispering words
The power In this invisible air
Neither can the dead be seen or heard
But they are surely there