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Pagan Paul Oct 2017
The night the Veil is thinnest
between the living and the dead.
Samhain eve reverberates darkly,
Worlds hanging by a single thread.

The Moon is high and midnight approaching,
as she slips from beneath the sheets so warm,
gently placing her wand in the secret drawer,
dressed in her hooded cloak, making for the door.
Barefoot along a path so long and  dark,
accompanied by the sounds of insects chirping,
the night songs creeping around her body,
Spirits of the Night smile at her wanton flirting.
Her legs carry her across green meadows
and on through the deep woods to a field,
drawn by hunger to a lonely figure on a hill,
she lets drop her cloak, her nakedness revealed.

Alone and pinioned, arms extended,
a warning stood upon a mound,
the guardian, a sentinel unbended,
statuesque, and tithed to the ground.

Her voice lifts high above the wind
and soft incantations fall as spells.
The Enchantress sings songs of yearning,
chiming along with Samhains bells.
And the warm midnight air shimmers
as the figure starts to turn to flesh,
reconstruction from the sacred heart,
for her painful memories to redress.

Thunder rolled, lightening flashed,
as she sank down to her knees,
reaching out to release his manhood,
and the howling wind began to ease.
His responsive flesh quickens with blood,
but not one sound does he make,
as she spies a grin upon his face,
a true sign that he was fully awake.
Lips and tongue work hard to arouse,
so his wand would stand with pride.
She stands up trembling and bending over
reversing a step to take him inside.
The storm rages with wild abandon,
like their frantic mating upon the hill.
Then as conjoined lovers reach ******
the storm is spent, and everything is still.

And the Spirits of the Night smiled upon her bliss,
at the Enchantress Crossing the Veil of the Abyss.

And with the passing of the storm
the spell died and was no more.
The one thing that her lover left,
her ****** purse filled with straw.

So smiling at her naughty nights play
she set her feet towards her home,
on this the very darkest of nights,
where both the living and dead roam.
Along the paths and back to her bed,
she giggles manically and starts to sing,
hoping the future reveals her joy,
of what her scarecrow lover may bring.

Samhain night over, to deep sleep she goes,
and soon Winters Solstice bells will ring,
It is then her dreams will surely know
whether her belly will swell in the Spring.

© Pagan Paul (15/10/17)

— The End —