I dream of Hallowe’en when we were children:

No transatlantic pumpkin at our sides

But turnip dug by dad from frost-streaked garden

And carved with care with chore-dulled kitchen knife

Till gaping, gap-toothed grin emerged. Then, skewered

By knitting needle, safe-secured by string,

With stub of candle craftily inserted

In hot-wax solder, to secure its grip.

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