PARWICH.ORG

The following Hallows Eve tale has been sent in by our very own P Burlinson – Happy Halloween everyone:

Make haste, make haste, my kindred souls who slither and crawl, scamper and scurry, the moon is rising and we must hurry.

Our kin are stirring from ancient crypts and catacombs, from cobwebbed vaults and musty tombs.

We must heed our dark masters’ call, and wend our way to the Halloween ball.

In a clearing deep in the woods behold a fairies ring, an enchanted place to dance and sing.

We’ll skip and hop to the fiddlers tune, round and round the crackling fire we’ll go with Jack O lanterns all aglow.

The Devils jig, the Demons reel, faster and faster we spin and wheel.

Elves and Goblins, Imps and Sprites, Will O the Wisps and cackling crones spitting curses to chill your bones.

Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies, Atishoo, atishoo we all fall down, ha, ha, ha, ha,

We’ll feast on lobsters and tickled trout, jellied eels that make you drool.

Venison and suckling pigs, the plumpest grapes and juicy figs.

Trifles, Syllabub’s and Gooseberry Fool.

With smoking pipes and foaming ale tales of yore we will regale.

Fair maids of Parwich beware this night, of unearthly beings that pinch and bite amid flickering shadows of candle light.

From the Witches cauldron we’ll sup long and deep, then into the treacle black night we’ll creep to call on you whilst you’re asleep.

We can squeeze through keyholes or under the door, tip toe, tip toe up the stairs, gliding quietly across the floor.

Creaking floorboards we do dread as we sneak quietly to your bed.

Ghostly whispers in your ear, just for you alone to hear.

We’ll have a kiss from those sweet lips, a salty tear if you should weep, a treasured locket mine to keep.

We’ll snip a lock of your flaxen hair, and pocket some pretty ribbons lying there.

Your dreams are ours now of fabled Unicorns and meadow sweet flowers, of jousting Knights and fairy tale towers.

Slumber fair maiden slumber on, a handsome Prince shall later grieve, we’ll steal your soul and take our leave.

And in the dewy misty morn when you are found, still heart, no beat, not a sound.

The village people will gather round.

They’ll say “Tis the devils work we see this day”.

P. S Burlinson