There are ghosts
all along the coast
of Wales, where the shingle spits
reach out to sea,
and the tide comes in
with aquamarine tales
of the living, the dead,
and those in between.
At Sarn Gynfelyn,
when the water’s low,
a girl in a vintage gown once walked
on the rippling,
shimmering, shallow flow:
you’d think her a spirit,
if you stopped to look,
a character from a ghostly book.
That was Emily,
who loved the place,
who crossed the shingle
at a methodical pace,
her hem on the water, her mind at rest,
no stress in her motion,
no tingle of death.
One evening she waded
half a mile or more
and as the daylight was dying
she turned for the shore.
But an old man stood watching
with wide, staring eyes,
then he shattered the dusk
with his terrified cries.
“It’s a ghost!” he screamed
in authentic surprise
and then his screams
turned into sighs
and it’s easy to see why.
She glided! She floated!
She walked on the waves!
It was the same dress, the same face
and she had the same hair!
Just like the girl he once saw in a grave!
But Emily was living:
she was right there.
Back to the shore
she continued to wade.
She soothed him, she helped him,
she bade him farewell,
she smiled to herself at the curious scene,
a strange anecdote she now had to tell,
of an old man undone
by a gown and a dream.
She stopped at a pub on the corner of town,
told the bald barman her curious tale,
but his moustache went rigid,
his complexion went pale.
“The screaming man?” he whispered.
“But he is long gone!
He faded away as all ghosts do
and hasn’t been seen
for a decade or two.”
Emily blinked,
her cider turned sour,
and she walked quickly home
with a bewildered glower.
Everything was spooky,
the moonlight was strange,
the ideas in her head
were all rearranged.
Yes, there are ghosts
all along the coast of Wales
where the shingle spits reach out to sea,
and the tide comes in
with its unholy hosts
and this very poem is another lost soul.
It’s also a ghost.
Can’t you tell?
The text will grow fainter and fainter
and the words will thin out
like water in a lake
during a drought
or echoes in a bell rung long ago.
You thought it was a living poem,
just a simple song,
but when you return
to re-read it
it will already be gone.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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