POEM: Bell, Book, and Candle
“But these dark powers do not rule the universe: they are in rebellion against Providential order; and by bell, book, and candle, literally or symbolically, we can push them down under.”
—Russell Kirk
A faceless hood unfolds from Corbett’s crypt,
and clammy fog fast fills the churchyard lawn.
At witching hour, hours before the dawn,
some specter’s skin-crawl claw creeps in to grip
your throat with fingers like a hangman’s rope.
This ancient power manifest tonight —
malice-made-flesh, perverse incarnate wight —
has come to leach your life and (worse) your hope.
Best pray that Tailor John will too soon chime
his cock-crow toll, his solemn, pealing call;
or incantate the Word — some sacred rhyme
breathed out on quivering, unsure lips is all
you’ll need; or light the feeble, flickering shine
of candle flame to drive away the pall.
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I LOVE your writing. And the fact that you’ve just quoted one of my favourite authors (my father’s mentor Kirk) just elevated my enjoyment. Cheers!
“malice-made-flesh, perverse incarnate wight” a truly haunting image.