Replicas Of Mrs Huxley

Mrs Huxley cries to me
Over a primrose fence.
Wrinkled, she haunts my impaired childhood,
Gentle and looming,
A soft Margaret Thatcher.
Her spiderweb hair
Never terrified me,
But Halloween escaped her
With our ghost-sheets.
"We mustn't scare her now,
Must we?"

I think she's dead, but now I see her
everywhere.