Craiglockhart
Brian Johnstone
Maybe they’re here somewhere, lost in these crowds of students, informal in their tweeds, plus fours –
Sassoon, the elder, Sunday golfer; Owen, bookish, gangly, pale – mingling with the queue for the refectory,
snatching nervously at fags, ignoring notices forbidding all those here to smoke. You catch a glimpse
you think, later, in the distance – backs straight, military haircuts – turning down a corridor you glance along
but they’re not there. No, no-one is, though low light slants through window frames, plants these crosses on the wall.









