The prompt that selected for today called for a poem about a holiday that I do not celebrate. Information about Allantide, also known as the Feast of Saint Allan, can be found, among other places on the Internet, at Wikipedia, but also on a webpage about Allantide – The Cornish Halloween.
At Allantide, as I did lie here sleeping,
I saw the apple-promised vision clear–
the face of him, my true love dear, appearing,
a ghost in mists of nearness–magic dream.
The face it was of him I loved in childhood,
who saved me from a drowning in the lake.
He beckons, softly whisp’ring, “Come and find me.
Come, join me now, my lover, in the wake.”
Alas, sir, you don’t lead where I can follow.
I cannot bear the water round my head.
I can’t forget the paleness of your features
as you lay there before me, still, quite dead.
I’ll eat this apple in your loving memory,
but stay here, safely kept upon the shore.
Each Allantide, I swear, I’ll give thanksgiving,
but a living love I’ll cherish even more.
Copyright © 2017-04-03, by E. W. Bennefeld.