In this place and time
of year our hauntings come
from the sea, she that usually
bewitches us can turn angry
and unleash her spite and spittle,
and she will not be sated
until we all concede our impotence.
She cares nothing for doors,
goes through one and all that
imagine they stand in her way.
We know she will come, not when,
and in the hollow eves when
the clouds build into an impenetrable
shroud she may be lurking.
If not this night then another
and we await her with
an ever growing dread
just as she always wishes it.