Hallows' Dusk

In the frame of grim dusk the shapes curved of wolf bark, Out of the iron gate a man tall in grey cloak appears still on the hill looming large in the dark, he comes down as the grips of the night firmly choke. Thin arms stretched, in the air he’s afloat like a bird, as the moon rises high in slow pace in the sky, when he drifts, he’s the Count, thus all old people heard, as he stands at my door, to be bold, so I try. Eerie night’s blue haze thick covers long ashen face, red eyes glare, all the fangs protrude through bloody lip. I do fail to escape, see myself in chill brace, I hear him whisper cold, “your hot blood I will sip”. I then freeze to the core when descends Hallows’ dusk, fearsome scene irks me still by fun fright, man in mask. ________________ November 15, 2022 Syllable count checked at HMS Contest : All Hallows' Evening Sponsored by : Craig Cornish