Canterbury Ghost – a poem by Paul Attwell

Canterbury Ghost 

I could sleep in the fireplace.
Flat out, fingertips

to toes. I saw him there.
The resident ghost is agitated,

unsolid and pale.
He shakes my plate and cup

with thought alone.
Unfazed, I want to talk.

Not before I sip my first
cup of Jamaican coffee.

Not before my first bite
of my fruit scone, a mini monster,

poised to expand and conquer.
It’s surprisingly light, crumbly,

unlike the ghost beside me
asking for a piece.

I explain that ghosts don’t eat.
He growls that no one told him that.

I laugh and offer him a mouthful.
Confused, he disappears.

Paul Attwell lives in Richmond, London and is recovering from doing a Masters in Creative Writing with the OU. Paul loves to read and is a fan of Startrek. He spends time as servant to his cat, Pudsey.