Generally I would be at home celebrating tonight with a not-terribly-thought-out costume, a smoking bowl of dark-and-stormy, and a few old friends. But instead I’m braving the night, the weather, and the Fæ by bumming around London — a city that long ago forgot about Hallowe’en — by myself.
The odds are against me bumping into any of you readers whilst I’m on the town (and also against us recognizing each other if we did). So, instead of offering you a bowl of anything, I’ll leave this old poem of John Hewitt’s here.
At least it’s not a bad night for coming and going, and maybe we’ll all end up wandering into the places where we ought to be.
Thomas Olivieri 