Last year there was a knock.
Three little girls from over the road
had climbed our front steps.
Two were dressed witchy,
the littlest one was a fairy
with gauzy wings. 'Oh come and look!'
I said to my love in his armchair.
Both of us, in the narrow doorway,
bent forward to smile and admire.
Luckily I found some jellybeans to give
and had enough left, an hour later,
when a stout little boy arrived alone
looking brave and hopeful
in his cardboard wizard's hat
and pillowcase cape.
This year I was well prepared
with a whole bowl of mixed lollies.
I thought they could each take a handful
like a sort of lucky dip. 'I'll definitely
get visitors tonight,' I told my friends. But no.
It's nearly ten. The street is very quiet.
Are they — or their parents —
being sensitive, choosing not to disturb
newly widowed me alone at the top of my steps?
I remember his face last year
tender with delight, beaming
at the young ones and their costumes.
He was hunched, and later we didn't
celebrate Beltane traditionally
(our real Sabbat here on this date)
because his back was hurting.
I wrote a poem instead — as I do tonight.
I have no Beltane fire, but I'll light
