Another sampling from my tome, 𝑻𝑯𝑬 π‘ͺ𝑢𝑽𝑬𝑡'𝑺 𝑯𝑢𝑹𝑡𝑩𝑢𝑢𝑲 & 𝑢𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑷𝑢𝑬𝑴𝑺. This one is from Section VI "Halloween/Samhain: A Chronographia of All Saints Eve"

Beneath the Crescent Moon
(hendecasyllabic [11-syllable count] Blank Verse)

Holding his bachall with sickle head he stood
Between the gathered folk and the sacred oak.
The bark scraped off one side, many ogham runes
Were etched into the Tree’s flesh so laid bare.
He’d watched the flight of the wrens that day to scry—
From the wild and twisting patterns as they fly—
Who had been chosen as sacrificial gift.
The divining spoons had reaffirmed the choice,
And now the people answered—as with one voice,
Echoing his words, responding to his chants.
The Day of Samhain, told by the rising sun,
Had come around again. Soon stark Winter’s woes
Would kill the Earth. It needed to be reborn.
And, as it chanced that night, the pale crescent moon
Glowed on the blade of the sickle in his hand—
A larger arc than the symbol on his staff,
Made of pure silver, with oak leaf pattern etched.
Then a silence, as they led the young man forth,
Paler in the wan light than the rest were pale.
They knelt him before the Priest, facing the folk.
More chanting. And then—the blade was pulled across….
And though the young throat brought forth no final sound,
All heard—even the chosen one—suddenly—
The wrens crying from the branches of the oak.

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