Bancroft cemetery.

Amongst silver birches- on the corner of Bancroft road, encircled by tall black fencing, concaved and held together with wire twisted into a noose at one of its four corners- stumps of tombstones jut up from grass and refuse. Two tombstones remain complete, amongst all the horizontal mossy slabs, with names illegible- those buried left neglected for forty years before the fist of a bomb dropped in the blitz flattened them.

Every morning I pass and look in beyond the rungs of the fencing. On one occasion two stripy camping chairs stood arms folded leaning on the inside against the wooden garden fencing lining two sides of the grounds. The day after no camping chair were found beyond the rungs. I imagine myself with the company of one other, sitting inside, under the silver birches at night. Silence,, besides the occasional clatter of a empty beer can landing on a mossy fallen tombstone.