JERICHO ECHO ARTICLE
January 1996
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 spiritsAuthor: Liza Picard, Cranham Street