Dark creeps over the land,
dim creatures pace
distant fields, shrouded 
in crepuscular light.
Spirits slip past 
wattle fences, glide 
silently like bats 
tracking moths above 
bonfire’s embers, 
drift toward candles 
in their old home’s windows, 
offerings of apple cake on the sill,
glimpse through the veil
at children round the fire,
turn away to mask 
the almost human pain. 
Carved turnips flicker, 
hobgoblins haunt the lane. 

[Patricia Hemminger grew up in rural UK and is a Rhysling and Pushcart Prize nominee.  Her poems have been published in many journals and in her chapbooks What Do We Know of Time and All Things Gone.]