Upon the wild and windy moor,
Across the hill tops hear her roar.
Echoing betwixt the hillocks.
Through fields wrapped in old stone walls.
Bright night coming, lantern calls.
The lantern carried be of the moon.
A fix of moonlight in the gloom.
As you do rest warm, safe in your bed,
The wind howls onwards like the dead.
Near Halloween, I hear you say.
The dead indeed come out to play.
May the sun rise high on all souls day.
So the dead may return to their airless beds.
Only silence live within their heads.
Sleepers.
(C)LIVVI