It is often said that the dead
Are, forever, dead
And that only fools believe in ghouls.
But, having read
Of ghosts and vampires. When I retire
To my bed
I feel the dead
Draw near.
And in my troubled dreams I scream
In fear.
Yet ghosts and ghouls
Are for fools –
Or so I hear …
Sunlight on gravestones
Reminds me
That we
Are but bones.
But, with my soul on the line
I should, perhaps back the communion wine . . .
Some see shapes gray
And say
“They are ghosts”.
Others perceive
Only bedposts
And grieve
For the naive
Fool
Who does believe
In spooks
And ghoul.
The rationalist takes refuge in books
But, on a dark night,
When the electric light
Fails
Even the sceptic sometimes pales
At the unexplained draft
Or shadows on the walls.
As he recalls
Nursery tales.
“I am daft”
He will say,
While fervently praying for the coming of day.
A sceptic stood on the river bank.
“Jump in
And swim”,
They called to him,
Showing off their strokes.
Having seen it all before
He remained on the bank,
And shrugged as the swimmers sank.
K Morris - Poet 