It is the bells I fear
when at 6pm the menfolk trudge up from the glen
and evening flicks its greedy tongue
into the eyes of the dying day
and the beasts that room within the evening gloom
are no longer held at bay but free to roam.

The darkness has no home
not in my heart
I want no part of it.

The eyelids of the night blink
and in them
I sink into another death
where the stinking breath of doom
invades me.
All pervasive
persuading me to go
Into what I do not know?
Nor want to.

At 5am the menfolk wake and that is when
the lingering night spits into the face
of the coming light
and then I feel alright.

But as the gloom retires
it is time to light the parlour fires
to rid myself of the chattering chill.
The night will always frighten me
the bells will always make me see
the beasts.