'Daylight Gate, they call this hour'. (From Mist Over Pendle by Robert Neill)
The Witching Hour.
The setting sun casts long shadows across pleated valleys,
A corrugated countryside, dotted with sheep and cattle,
Scarce of trees and generously coated in purple flowering heather
And reed and grey grass, the moorland of hare and curlew.
The sweep of the hill darkens to purple, grey and as the hour
Advances the land settles, perhaps not to sleep, but to an older
And deeper way of living, a life with instinctual knowledge and
Inherited wisdom, a worship of the powerful life forces of
Birth, of sex, and of death as the great leveller.
At this hour the daylight is passing through the gate and on
The other side the darkness waits patiently to accompany it
Through the long hours until once again the sun arises to kiss
The world with golden warmth and once more the world of today
Plays out its prescribed course, and tries hard not to think
Of the mysteries of the night hours through the Daylight Gate.
The prompt today was to take a favourite line from a favourite book, write a poem from that and then change the title.