Allium heads rise dry on withered stalk
in this season of mists and bone-chilling rain.
In bonfire tales, the dead will rise and walk
through fields of rotten flesh and blighted grain.
In elder years, they spoke of goblin men --
with fruit so fair, they stole a bonnie lass.
True Thomas entranced by glorious queen and then
awoke on cold hillside; seven years passed.
Those tales seem brighter, with a lovely air;
beauty balanced fright and loss and woe.
Our modern tales suffer by compare;
our modern days seem bleaker. Even so,
I cannot believe these barren days will last.
The spring must rise; have faith. Hold fast.
(I'm not loving the second stanza; might have to work on it some more.)