Through the gate—
leaves rot underfoot.
Damp roses
and decay hang.

Apple pie,
custard,
toasted almonds
and spice.

This is Samhain—
liminal space.
A horse-drawn carriage
of death
follows a bountiful
harvest.

The crow flies,
a tinnitus whisper
at the edge
of sleep.

The Morrígan
invites.

A predictor of futures,
an agent of change.
She lights the lamp.
Lifts the veil.
She is fate.

Fear has left now.
Only peace remains.