Issue 34 — January 1996
Hallowe'en at St. Sepulchres
The witches were revving their brooms in the
street
Preparing for take-off, with chestnuts to eat
Their familiar, Black Rabbit, escaped yet again
With lustful intent, from his back-garden pen.
Such mobile spirits.
Beyond the wall, the graveyard trees
Shed their leaves in the chilling breeze
His slab lay flat on Balliol’s Jowett.
Fosco, born in Calcutta, wondered how it
Happened he died in St. Leonards, "interred
Here at his earnest request". I heard.
No wandering spirits
Liza Picard, Cranham Street
