Sonnet at the witching hour

This is a sonnet at the witching hour
the moon is high, the wind moans through the trees
dead leaves and petals dance from every bower
and flutter down, borne on the autumn breeze

to stone cold earth, to rot and decompose
as death’s cold season draws on, ever nearer
a single, late blooming and blood-red rose
tempts with its scent, whose charms could not be clearer

unless the snow lay on the ground and then
the blood drops red would stain its purity
instead, I prick my finger once again
cursing my negligent stupidity

the scent of blood this Halloween Midnight
draws shadows from the woods, as I take flight.

Halloween Sonnet Sunday is here!

Welcome, witch-watchers: prepare for a night flight through fearful scenery…will you hide behind the sofa at the words conjured by our poetry? I will be posting Halloween-themed sonnets at regular intervals throughout the day, and you are welcome to link up one of your own below. Be sure to read the work of others who are taking part…if you dare!