Eric Kincaid — Hallowe'en
This is the night when witches fly
On their whizzing broomsticks through the wintry sky;
Steering up the pathway where the stars are strewn,
They stretch skinny fingers to the waking moon.
This is the night when old wives tell
Strange and creepy stories, tales of charm and spell;
Peering at the pictures flaming in the fire
They wait for whispers from a ghostly choir.
This is the night when angels go
In and out of houses, winging o'er the snow;
Clearing out the demons from the countryside
They make it new and ready for Christmastide.