From the censer of John T Ahearn....

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All Hallows’ Eve

When the aliens have landed and are gone,

and the goblins' sugared path has seen them past

the sticky monsters dotting every lawn,

and homeward wends the whole unlikely cast,

we quench the pumpkin, flip the top lock on,

and fire another log. Alone at last.

We gather darkness to us to defeat

the greedy stragglers' businesslike demands,

settle to a silence so complete

that ghosts in their accustomed shadowlands

begin to haunt the walls, begging sweets.

Ourselves. Our own unfledged and awkward hands.

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John the Blogless is a poet and writer