The ghost

A ghost enters the room
but no one notices

The grey, impenetrable swell of human conversation
rises, falls and rises,
and the faint smell of something supernatural
dissipates

In the mirror it is as if nothing happened
except smoke:
no collateral damage

Out on the marsh
the tide turns in an instant
like the flicker of a switch

And everything changes:
the dead creek fills with life
springing inwards
lifting spirits

Flooding empty space:
the ghost, exhausted by the atmosphere,
crawls into a disconnected pool
and waits

 

>Written on holiday at Blakeney