All Saints

Bracken like damp fox-pelts—
a peddler's chilly jest—
and the old saints burn for the new young saints
flaring red in the west.

The old saints roar for the new young saints
with the cattle's hunger-cry,
but the new saints are bright with the last of the light
and the moon's on her back in the sky.

The old saints and the new young saints
have danced on the blade of the knife—
the old saints are lepping the Samain fires,
the new saints are lepping from life.