There were no pumpkins, no tricks, no treats,
No dancing to haunting music, just a ghostly silence,
In the clinging black graveyard night,
Where memories and people were in another spirit world.
The moon was on a day trip,
Turning a blind eye to the witches,
In Chantilly they were on the look out for
Which is and which isn’t a winner?
On all fours in the beer sanctuary,
Searching for flyers,
Riding high in broomstick betting land
Dreaming up outrageous brews
To intoxicate souls.
And seeing phantoms and poltergeist
And sorcerers like Don Juan
And seeing double.
I remember as children,
Running outside in the dark,
Feeling creepy fingers of dewy webs
Between the trees
And trying hard not to scream,
Giving the pumpkin an ear to ear grin,
And watching his head cave in from the candle flame,
Spellbound by wax forming strange Merlin shapes
In cold water,
And counting on tealeaves.
Finally to bed
Eyes on organ stops,
Making out alien shadows in the blackness,
And listening to the other children
Breathing like hobgoblins.